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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

SANTA  BARBARA 

COLLEGE  OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

MR. AND  MRS.R.W.VAUGHAIv 


A    COLLECTION    OF 


LETTERS    OF   THACKERAY 


^^ 


^^yf-^^  y/^yy/'^ 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 
[Engraved   by  G.   Kruell  after  the  crayon  portrait  by  Samuel   Laurence] 


A  COLLECTION    OF 


LETTERS  OF  THACKERAY 


1847-18^^ 


JVITH   PORTRAITS    AND    REPRODUCTIONS   OF 
LETTERS   AND    DRAWINGS 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

MDCCCLXXXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1886,  1887 
BY   CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


[^All  rights  reserved'\ 


-K?r'sx^;:^-n>^^ 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE. 

^^^  In  arranging  the  letters  for  publication,  a  sim- 
ple chronological  order  has  been  followed,  regardless 
of  their  relative  importance.  In  some  cases  the  origi- 
nals were  not  dated ;  and  in  each  of  these  instances 
an  effort  has  been  made  to  supply  the  omission.  Often 
it  has  been  possible  to  do  this  with  certainty ;  and  in 
that  case  the  date  is  printed  above  the  letter  in  Roman 
type.  Where  such  certainty  could  not  be  reached, 
conjectural  dates  are  given  in  italics  and  enclosed  in 
brackets ;  but  even  then  they  have  been  so  far  verified 
by  means  of  incidents  referred  to  in  the  letters,  or 
other  evidence,  that  they  may  be  depended  upon  as 
fixing  very  closely  the  time  of  the  notes  to  which  they 
are  attached.  In  this  final  arrangement  of  the  letters, 
and  in  some  additional  annotation,  the  publishers  have 
enjoyed  the  privilege  of  advice  and  assistance  from 
Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell,  who  kindly  consented,  with 


vi  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

the  cordial  approval  and  thanks  of  Mrs.  Brookfield,  to 
give  them  this  aid. 

The  publishers  are  permitted  to  make  public  the 
followino-  letter  from  Mrs.  Ritchie  to  Mrs.  Brookfield : 


36a  Rosary  Gardens,    Hereford  Square,   S.  W. 

April  28. 

My  Dear  Mrs.   Brookfield  : 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  have  made  a  satisfactory 
arrangement  for  publishing  your  selections  from  my  Father's 
letters.  I  am  of  course  unable  myself  by  his  expressed  wish 
to  do  anything  of  the  sort.  While  I  am  glad  to  be  spared 
the  doubts  and  difficulties  of  such  a  work,  I  have  often  felt 
sorry  to  think  that  no  one  should  ever  know  more  of  him. 
You  know  better  than  anyone  what  we  should  like  said  or 
unsaid,  and  what  he  would  have  wished ;  so  that  I  am  very 
glad  to  think  you  have  undertaken  the  work,  and  am  always 
your  affectionate 

Anne  Ritchie. 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE  REPRODUCTIONS,  UNLESS  OTHERWISE  SPECIFIED,  ARE  MADE  FROM 

DRAWINGS  AND  LETTERS  IN  THE  POSSESSION 

OF    MRS.  BROOKFIELD 


[VILLI AM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY,  .        .  Frontispiece 

Engraved   by  G.   Kruell  after   the  portrait  by  Samuel 
Laurence. 


PAGE 


yignette — Drawing   by   Thackeray  of  Mrs.    Brook  field  and 

her  two  maids,  Turpin  and  Payne, 5 

Passage  from  a    letter   to  Mr.   Brookfield,  with   drawing, 

"My  Barb  is  at  the  Postern,"  9 

Passage  from  a  letter  from  Brussels,  with  drawing,  "  The 

Broken  Knife,"        .        .        . 10 

From  the  same  letter,  with  drawing,  "  The  Slashers,"         .        12 


Drawing   by    Thackeray  in  water  color  and  pencil  (Mrs. 

Brookfield), 18 

Clevedon  Court  (from  a  recent  photograph),         .        ...        28 

Passage  from   a    letter  to   Mr.   Brookfield,  with   drawing, 

"  Harry  Hallam  with  Dog  and  Gun,"  .        ...        29 


Vll 


Passage  from  a  letter  of  November  i ,  1848,  with  drawing. 

"A  Party  of  Us  Drove  in  an  Oxford  Cart,"  .        .        31 

From   the   same,  with   drawing,  "  The    Oxford   Man's 

Bed." i2 

Drawing  by  Thackeray,  an  equestrian  statue  of  himself,      .        .        40 

Facsimile  of  a  minute  dinner-note  from  Thackeray,  .        .        5/ 

Sketch  of  Mrs.  Brookfield  (from  a  collection  of  Thackeray's 
drawings  privately  printed  for  Sir  Arthur  Elton,  of 
Clevedon  Court),  ^4 

In    the   Nursery   at    Clevedon    Court    (from    the    Clevedon 

drawings), .        .        62 

Passage  from  a  letter  from  Brighton,  with  drawing,  "An 

Evening  Reading," 63 

Clevedon  Church  (from  a  recent  photograph),       .        ...        68 

Note  sent    by    Thackeray  to  Mrs.    Elliot,   written    in   the 

form  of  the  initials  J.  O.  B., 72 

Facsimile   of  a    letter  from    Paris,   with   sketch  of  Jules 

Janin, 80 

Stan:(^a  from  the  original  manuscript  of  dough's  "Flags  of 
Piccadilly,"  with  a  drawing  by  Thackeray,  in  the 
possession  of  Mr.  James   Russell  Lowell,     .        ...        82 

Note  and  sketch   sent  by  Thackeray  to  Mrs.  Elliot,  in  the 

possession  of  Miss  Kate  Perry, 94 

Facsimile  of  letter  from  Dieppe,  with  drawings  of  Angelina 

Henrion  and  a  clergyman's  wife,  110 


VUl 


PAGE 


"  The  Lady  of  the  House."  a  drawing  by  Thackeray  (perhaps 

Lady  Castlereagh  ? ) , //^ 

The  Statuette  of    Thackeray  by  Joseph  Edgar  Boehm,  R.A.,        .       ii& 

Memorial  Tablets  to  Arthur  and  Henry  Hallam  in  Clevedon 

Church  (from  a  photograph), i^o 

Sketch  by  TrAickeray,  j^S 

Facsimile  of  a  letter  to   Mrs.  Elliot,  now  in  the  possession 

of  her  sist'r,  Miss  Kate  Perry, 142 

In   the  School-room  of  Clevedon   Court  (from  the  Clevedon 

drawings), 148 

Passage  from  a  letter  from  Switzerland,  with  drawing  of 

the  View  from  a  Window  at  Basel, iiyO 

Sketch  by  Thackeray — His  Daughters  and  Major  and  Mrs. 

Carmichael  Smyth,         .        .        .        .        ,        .        .        .1^4 

Portrait  of  Thackeray  (from  a  photograph  in  the  possession 

of  Mrs.  James  T.  Fields), 1^8 

yignette— Profile  of  the  Boehm  Statuette,  .        .        .        .      iy6 

Portrait  of  Thackeray  (from  a  drawing  by  Samuel  Laurence),     .      178 

yignette — Drawing  sent  to  Miss  Kate  Perry,       ....       18^ 


INTRODUCTION. 


NO  writer  of  recent  times  is  so  much  quoted  as 
Thackeray  ;  scarcely  a  week  passes  without  his 
name  recurring  in  one  or  other  of  the  leading 
articles  of  the  day  ;  and  yet  whilst  his  published  works 
retain  their  influence  so  firmly,  the  personal  impression 
of  his  life  and  conversation  becomes  more  and  more 
shadowy  and  indistinct  as  the  friends  who  knew  and 
loved  him  the  most  are  gradually  becoming  fewer  and 
passing  away. 

Thackeray's  nature  was  essentially  modest  and  re- 
tiring. More  than  once  it  appears  that  he  had  desired 
his  daughter  to  publish  no  memoir  of  him.  Mrs.  Ritchie, 
who  alone  could  do  justice  to  her  Father's  memory, 
and  who  has  inherited  the  true  woman's  share  of  his 
genius,  and  of  the  tender  and  perceptive  sympathy  of 
his  character,  has  ever  held  this  injunction  sacred,  even 
to  the  extent  of  withholding  all  his  letters  to  his  family 
from  publication.  Yet  it  happens  from  time  to  time 
that  some  chance  letters  of  doubtful  authenticity,  and 
others  utterly  spurious,  have  appeared  in  print,  and 
have  even  perhaps  found  acceptance  amongst  those 
who,  knowing  him  only  by  his  published  works,  were 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

without  the  true  key  for  distinguishing  what  was  genu- 
ine from  what  was  simply  counterfeit. 

The  letters  which  form  this  collection  were  most  of 
them  written  by  Mr.  Thackeray  to  my  husband,  the 
late  Rev'd  W.  H.  Brookfield,  and  myself,  from  about 
1847,  ^^^  continuing  during  many  years  of  intimate 
friendship,  beginning  from  the  time  when  he  first  lived 
in  London,  and  when  he  especially  needed  our  sym- 
pathy. His  happy  married  life  had  been  broken  up 
by  the  malady  which  fell  upon  his  young  wife  after  the 
birth  of  her  youngest  child ;  his  two  remaining  little 
girls  were  under  his  mother's  care,  at  Paris.  Mr. 
Thackeray  was  living  alone  in  London.  *'  Vanity 
Fair"  was  not  yet  written  when  these  letters  begin. 
His  fame  was  not  yet  established  in  the  world  at  large ; 
but  amongst  his  close  personal  friends,  an  undoubting 
belief  in  his  genius  had  already  become  strongly  rooted. 
No  one  earlier  than  my  dear  gifted  husband  adopted 
and  proclaimed  this  new  faith.  The  letters  now  so 
informally  collected  together  are  not  a  consecutive 
series ;  but  they  have  always  been  carefully  preserved 
with  sincere  affection  by  those  to  whom  they  were 
written.  Some  of  them  are  here  given  without  the 
omission  of  a  word ;  others  are  extracts  from  com- 
munications of  a  more  private  character ;  but  if  every 
one  of  these  letters  from  Thackeray  could  be  rightly 
made  public,  without  the  slightest  restriction,  they 
would  all  the  more  redound  to  his  honour. 

Jane  Octavia  Brookfield. 

29  Carlyle  Square,  Chelsea. 


LETTERS. 


[yan.   1847.] 

[To  Mr.  Bwokfield.-] 

My  Dear  W.  : 

There  will  be  no  dinner  at  Greenwich  on  Monday. 
Dickens  has  chosen  that  day  for  a  reconciliation  banquet 
between  Forster  and  me. 

Is  madame  gone  and  is  she  better?  My  heart  follows 
her  respectfully  to  Devonshire  and  the  dismal  scenes  of  my 
youth. 

I  am  being  brought  to  bed  of  my  seventh  darling  with 
inexpressible  throes:  and  dine  out  every  day  until  Jmce 
knows  when. 

I  will  come  to  you  on  Sunday  night  if  you  like — though 
stop,  why  shouldn't  you,  after  church,  come  and  sleep  out 
here  in  the  country  } 

Yours, 

Jos.  OSBORN. 


6  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

[August,  1847.] 

[_To  Mr.  Brookfield.] 

LE    DiMANCHE. 

Monsieur  l'Abbe: 

De  retour  de  Gravesend  j'ai  trouve  chez  moi  un  billet 
de  M.  Crowe,  qui  m'invite  a  diner  demain  a  6  heures  pre- 
cises a  Ampstead. 

En  meme  temps  M.  Crowe  m'a  envoye  une  lettre  pour 
vous, — ne  vous  trouvant  pas  a  votre  ancien  logement  (oil 
I'adresse  de  I'horrible  bouge  oil  vous  demeurez  actuelle- 
ment  est  heureusement  ignoree) — force  fut  a  M.  Crowe  de 
s'adresser  a  moi — a  moi  qui  connais  I'ignoble  caveau  que 
vous  occupez  indignement,  sous  les  dalles  humides  d'une 
eglise  deserte,  dans  le  voisinage  fetide  de  fourmillants  Ir- 
landais. 

Cette  lettre,  Monsieur,  dont  je  parle — cette  lettre — je 
I'ai  laissee  a  la  maison.  Demain  il  sera  trop  tard  de  vous 
faire  part  de  I'aimable  invitation  de  notre  ami  commun. 

Je  remplis  enfin  mon  devoir  envers  M.  Crowe  en  vous 
faisant  savoir  ses  intentions  hospitalieres  a  votre  egard.  Et 
je  vous  quitte,  Monsieur,  en  vous  donnant  les  assurances 
reiterees  de  ma  haute  consideration. 

Chevalier  de  Titmarsh. 

J'offre  a  Madame  I'Abbesse  mes  hommages  respec- 
tueux. 

1847. 

[To  Mr.  Brookfield.] 
My  Dear  old  B.  : 

Can  you  come  and  dine  on  Thursday  at  six  ?  I  shall  be 
at  home — no  party — nothing — only   me.     And   about  your 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  7 

night-cap,  why  not  come  out  for  a  day  or  two,  though  the 
rooms  are  very  comfortable  in  the  Church  vaults.*  Fare- 
well. 

Ever  your 

Louisa. 
(And  Madam,  is  she  well  ? ) 

[1847.] 
{Enclosing  the  following  note.] 

Temple,  8  Nov. 

My  Dear  Thackeray  : 

A  thousand  thanks.  It  will  do  admirably,  and  I  will  not 
tax  you  again  in  the  same  manner.  Don't  get  nervous  or 
think  about  criticism,  or  trouble  yourself  about  the  opinions 
of  friends  ;  you  have  completely  beaten  Dickens  out  of  the 
inner  circle  already.  I  dine  at  Gore  House  to-day  ;  look  in 
if  you  can. 

Ever  yours, 

A.  H. 

Madam  : 

Although  I  am  certainly  committing  a  breach  of  confi- 
dence, I  venture  to  offer  my  friend  up  to  you,  because  you 
have  considerable  humour,  and  I  think  will  possibly  laugh  at 

*  In  this  Letter,  and  elsewhere,  reference  is  made  to  my  husband's  Hving  in  the 
"  church  vaults."  Our  income  at  this  time  was  very  small,  and  a  long  illness  had  involved 
us  in  some  difficulty.  Mr.  Brookfield's  aversion  to  debt  and  his  firm  rectitude  of  principle 
decided  him  to  give  up  our  lodgings,  and  to  remove  by  himself  into  the  vestry  of  his  District 
Church,  which  was  situated  in  a  very  squalid  neighborhood.  Here  he  could  live  rent  free, 
and  in  the  midst  of  his  parish  work,  whilst  he  sent  me  to  stay  with  my  dear  father,  the  late  Sir 
Charles  Elton,  at  Clevedon  Court,  for  the  recovery  of  my  health.  At  this  juncture  our  cir- 
cumstances gradually  brightened.  Mr.  Thackeray,  my  uncle,  Mr.  Hallam,  and  other  friends 
interested  themselves  towards  obtaining  better  preferment  for  Mr.  Brookfield,  whose  great 
ability  and  high  character  were  brought  to  the  notice  of  Lord  Lansdowne,  then  President  of 
the  Council,  and  head  of  the  Education  Department.  He  appointed  Mr.  Brookfield  to  be  one 
of  H.  M.  Inspectors  of  Schools,  an  employment  which  was  very  congenial  to  him.  Our  dif- 
ficulties were  then  removed,  and  we  were  able  to  establish  ourselves  in  a  comfortable  house 
in  Portman  Street,  to  which  so  many  of  these  letters  are  addressed. 


8  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

him.  You  know  you  yourself  often  hand  over  some  folks  to 
some  other  folks,  and  deserve  to  be  treated  as  you  treat 
others. 

The  circumstances  arose   of  a  letter  which   H sent 

me,  containing  prodigious  compliments.  I  answered  that 
these  praises  from  all  quarters  frightened  me  rather  than 
elated  me,  and  sent  him  a  drawing  for  a  lady's  album,  with  a 
caution  not  to  ask  for  any  more,  hence  the  reply.  Ah  ! 
Madame,  how  much  richer  truth  is  than  fiction,  and  how 
great  that  phrase  about  the  "  inner  circle  "  is. 

I  write  from  the  place  from  which  I  heard  your  little  voice 
last  night,  I  mean  this  morning,  at  who  knows  how  much 
o'clock.  I  wonder  whether  you  will  laugh  as  much  as  I  do  ; 
my  papa  in  the  next  room  must  think  me  insane,  but  I  am 
not,  and  am  of  Madame,  the  Serviteur  and  Frere  affectionnL 

W.  M.  T. 

[1847.] 
\To  Mr.  Brookfield.'\ 

My  dear  W.  H.  B.  : 

I  daresay  you  are  disgusted  at  my  not  coming  to  the 
bouge,  on  Sunday  night,  but  there  was  a  good  reason,  which 
may  be  explained  if  required  hereafter.  And  I  had  made  up 
my  account  for  some  days  at  Southampton,  hoping  to  start 
this  day,  but  there  is  another  good  reason  for  staying  at 
home.  Poor  old  grandmother's  will,  burial  &c.,  detained  me 
in  town.     Did  you  see  her  death  in  the  paper  ? 

Why  I  write  now,  is  to  beg,  and  implore,  and  intreat  that 
you  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  will  come  and  take  these  three  nice 
little  rooms  here,  and  stop  with  me  until  you  have  found 
other  lodgment.  It  will  be  the  very  greatest  comfort  and 
kindness  to  me,  and  I  shall  take  it  quite  hungry  if  you  don't 
come.     Will   you  come  on  Saturday  now  ?  the  good   things 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  9 

you  shall  have  for  dinner  are  quite  incredible.  I  have  got  a 
box  of  preserved  apricots  from  Fortnum  and  Mason's  which 
alone  ought  to  make  any  lady  happy,  and  two  shall  be  put 
under  my  lady's  pillow  every  night.  Now  do  come — and 
farewell.  My  barb  is  at  the  postern.  I  have  had  him  clipped 
and  his  effect  in  the  Park  is  quite  tremenjus, 

JVkIi  U  fkt  \kmXu.  Ium  U^    p»ll<nJ  AAfVu,  \iuMr . 

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0 


Brussels,  Friday  [28  July],  1848. 
I  have  just  had  a  dreadful  omen.  Somebody  gave  me  a 
paper-knife  with  a  mother  of  pearl  blade  and  a  beautiful  Sil- 
ver handle.  Annie  recognised  it  in  a  minute,  lying  upon 
my  dressing  table,  with  a  "  Here's  Mrs.  So  and  So's  butter 
knife."  I  suppose  she  cannot  have  seen  it  above  twice,  but 
that  child  remembers  everything.  Well,  this  morning,  being 
fairly  on  my  travels,  and  having  the  butter  knife  in  my  desk. 


lO  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

I  thought  I  would  begin  to  cut  open  a  book  I  had  bought, 
never  having  as  yet  had  occasion  to  use  it.  The  moment  I 
tried,  the  blade  broke  away  from  the  beautiful  handle.  What 
does  this  portend  ?  It  is  now — [here  drawing]  There  is  a 
blade  and  there  is  a  hilt,  but  they  refuse  to  act  together. 
Something  is  going  to  happen  I  am  sure. 


I  took  leave  of  my  family  on  Sunday,  after  a  day  in 
the  rain  at  Hampton  Court.  .  .  .  Forster  *  was 
dining  with  Mr.  Chapman  the  publisher,  where  we 
passed  the  day.  His  article  in  the  Examiner  did  not  please 
me  so  much  as  his  genuine  good  nature  in  insisting  upon 
walking  with  Annie  at  night,  and  holding  an  umbrella  over 
her  through  the  pouring  rain.  Did  you  read  the  Spectator  s 
sarcastic  notice  of  V,  F.  ?  I  don't  think  it  is  just,  but  think 
Kintoul  is  a  very  honest  man  and  rather  inclined  to  deal 
severely  with  his  private  friends,  lest  he  should  fall  into  the 
other  extreme ; — to  be  sure  he  keeps  out  of  it,  I  mean  the 
other  extreme,  very  well. 

I  passed  Monday  night  and  part  of  Tuesday  in  the  artless 
society  of  some  officers  of  the  21st,  or  Royal  Scots  Fusiliers, 
in  garrison  at  Canterbury.  We  went  to  a  barrack  room, 
where  we  drank  about,  out  of  a  Silver  cup  and  a  glass.  I 
heard  such  stale  old  garrison  stories.  I  recognised  among 
the  stories  many  old  friends  of  my  youth,  very  pleasant  to 
meet  when  one  was  eighteen,  but  of  whom  one  is  rather  shy 
now.  Not  so  these  officers,  however  ;  they  tell  each  other 
the  stalest  and  wickedest  old  Joe  Millers  ;  the  jolly  grey- 
headed old  majors  have  no  reverence  for  the  beardless  en- 

*  John  Forster,  the  intimate  friend  of  Charles  Dickens,  and  well-known  writer. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  \\ 

signs,  nor  vice-versa.  I  heard  of  the  father  and  son  in  the 
other  regiment  in  garrison  at  Canterbury,  the  Slashers  if 
you  please,  being  carried  up  drunk  to  bed  the  night  before. 
Fancy  what  a  hfe.  Some  of  ours, — I  don't  mean  yours 
Madam,  but  I  mean  mine  and  others — are  not  much  better, 
though  more  civilised. 

We  went  to  see  the  wizard  Jacobs  at  the  theatre,  he  came 
up  in  the  midst  of  the  entertainment,  and  spoke  across  the 
box  to  the  young  officers  ; — he  knows  them  in  private  life, 
they  think  him  a  good  fellow.  He  came  up  and  asked  them 
confidentially,  if  they  didn't  like  a  trick  he  had  just  performed. 
"  Neat  little  thing  isn't  it  ?  "  the  great  Jacobs  said,  "  I  brought 
it  over  from  Paris."  They  go  to  his  entertainment  every  night, 
fancy  what  a  career  of  pleasure ! 

A  wholesome  young  Squire  with  a  large  brown  face  and 
a  short  waistcoat,  came  up  to  us  and  said,  "  Sorry  you're  goin', 
I  have  sent  up  to  barracks  a  great  lot  o'  radbiiis."  They  were 
of  no  use,  those  rabbuts  :  the  21st  was  to  march  the  next  day. 
I  saw  the  men  walking  about  on  the  last  day,  taking  leave 
of  their  sweethearts,  (who  will  probably  be  consoled  by  the 
Slashers). 

I  was  carried  off  by  my  brother-in-law  through  the  rain, 
to  see  a  great  sight,  the  regimental  soup-tureens  and  dishcov- 
ers,  before  they  were  put  away.  "  Feel  that"  says  he,  "  Will- 
iam, just  feel  the  weight  of  that !  "  I  was  called  upon  twice  to 
try  the  weight  of  that  soup  dish,  and  expressed  the  very  high- 
est gratification  at  being  admitted  to  that  privilege.  Poor 
simple  young  fellows  and  old  youngsters  !  I  felt  ashamed  of 
myself  for  spying  out  their  follies  and  fled  from  them  and  came 
off  to  Dover.  It  was  pouring  with  rain  all  day,  and  I  had 
no  opportunity  of  putting  anything  into  the  beautiful  new 
sketch  books. 

I  passed  an  hour  in  the  Cathedral,  which  seemed  all  beau- 
tiful to  me ;  the  fifteenth  Century  part,  the  thirteenth  century 


12 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 


part,  and  the  crypt  above  all,  which  they  say  is  older  than  the 
Conquest.  The  most  charming,  harmonious,  powerful  com- 
bination of  shafts  and  arches,  beautiful  whichever  way  you 
saw  them  developed,  like  a  fine  music  or  the  figures  in  a 
Kaleidoscope,  rolling  out  mysteriously,  a  beautiful  foundation 
for  a  beautiful  building.    I  thought  how  some  people's  tower- 

JiKth  turzdiA^  dud  Am  L  ^llcnn^  vtitALMi^ 

JlUoLmi.  ^  Wu-M  O-AxiuX^  fc  nul  jfw'U<ni!uj^ .    tWw  JuutJU  ^»u\*^  \cVUru^ 

iU  tlt4^  ^Uuj  -^^  jtn  JHau  \\mh  tuxJi  CaxuMrfili  h  raiiintirr^rrr. 

ing  intellects  and  splendid  cultivated  geniuses  rise  upon  sim- 
ple, beautiful  foundations  hidden  out  of  sight,  and  how  this 
might  be  a  good  simile,  if  I  knew  of  any  very  good  and  wise 
man  just  now.     But  I  don't  know  of  many,  do  you  ? 

Part  of  the  Crypt  was  given  up  to  French  Calvinists  ;  and 
texts  from  the  French  Bible  of  some  later  sect  are  still  painted 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 3 

on  the  pillars,  surrounded  by  French  ornaments,  looking  very 
queer  and  out  of  place.  So,  for  the  matter  of  that,  do  we 
look  queer  and  out  of  place  in  that  grand  soaring  artificial 
building:  we  may  put  a  shovel  hat  on  the  pinnacle  of  the 
steeple,  as  Omar  did  a  crescent  on  the  peak  of  the  church  at 
Jerusalem ;  but  it  does  not  belong  to  us,  I  mean  according  to 
the  fitness  of  things.  We  ought  to  go  to  church  in  a  very 
strong,  elegant,  beautifully  neat  room  ;  croziers,  and  banners, 
incense,  and  jimcracks,  grand  processions  of  priests  and  monks 
(with  an  inquisition  in  the  distance),  and  lies,  avarice,  tyranny, 
torture,  all  sorts  of  horrible  and  unnatural  oppressions  and 
falsehoods  kept  out  of  sight ;  such  a  place  as  this  ought  to 
belong  to  the  old  religion.  How  somebody  of  my  acquaint- 
ance would  like  to  walk  into  a  beautiful  calm  confessional  and 
go  and  kiss  the  rood  or  the  pavement  of  a'Becket's  shrine. 
Fancy  the  church  quite  full ;  the  altar  lined  with  pontifical 
gentlemen  bobbing  up  and  down  ;  the  dear  little  boys  in  white 
and  red  flinging  about  the  incense  pots ;  the  music  roaring 
out  from  the  organs ;  all  the  monks  and  clergy  in  their  stalls, 
and  the  archbishop  on  his  throne — O  !  how  fine  !  And  then 
think  of  the  +  of  our  Lord  speaking  quite  simply  to  simple 
Syrian  people,  a  child  or  two  maybe  at  his  knees,  as  he  taught 
them  that  love  was  the  truth.  Ah  !  as  one  thinks  of  it,  how 
grand  that  figure  looks,  and  how  small  all  the  rest ;  but  I  dare 
say  I  am  getting  out  of  my  depth. 

I  came  on  hither  [to  Brussels]  yesterday,  having  passed 
the  day  previous  at  Dover,  where  it  rained  incessantly,  and 
where  I  only  had  the  courage  to  write  the  first  sentence  of 
this  letter,  being  utterly  cast  down  and  more  under  the  influ- 
ence of  blue  devils  than  I  ever  remember  before  ;  but  a  fine 
bright  sky  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  a  jolly  brisk 
breeze,  and  the  ship  cutting  through  the  water  at  fifteen  miles 
an  hour,  restored  cheerfulness  to  this  wearied  spirit,  and  en- 
abled it  to  partake  freely  of  beefsteak  and  pommes-de-terre  at 


14  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

Ostend ;  after  an  hour  of  which  amusement,  it  was  time  to 
take  the  train  and  come  on  to  Brussels.  The  country  is  de- 
lightfully well  cultivated ;  all  along  the  line  you  pass  by  the 
most  cheerful  landscapes  with  old  cities,  gardens,  cornfields 
and  rustic  labour. 

At  the  table  d'hdte  I  sat  next  a  French  Gentleman  and  his 
lady.  She  first  sent  away  the  bread  ;  she  then  said  "  fnais, 
171071  ami,  ce potage  est  abominable  '  then  she  took  a  piece  of 
pudding  on  her  fork,  not  to  eat,  but  to  smell,  after  which  she 
sent  it  away.  Experience  told  me  it  was  a  little  grisette  giv- 
ing herself  airs,  so  I  complimented  the  waiter  on  the  bread, 
recommended  the  soup  to  a  man,  and  took  two  portions  of 
the  pudding,  under  her  nose. 

Then  we  went  (I  found  a  companion,  an  ardent  admirer, 
in  the  person  of  a  Manchester  merchant)  to  the  play,  to  see 
Dejazet,  in  the  "  GeTztil  Bernard,"  of  which  piece  I  shall  say 
nothing,  but  I  think  it  was  the  wickedest  I  ever  saw,  and  one 
of  the  pleasantest,  adorably  funny  and  naughty.  As  the  part 
{^Gentil  Bernard  is  a  prodigious  rake,)  is  acted  by  a  woman, 
the  reality  is  taken  from  it,  and  one  can  bear  to  listen,  but 
such  a  little  rake,  such  charming  impudence,  such  little  songs, 
such  little  dresses  !  She  looked  as  inignonne  as  a  china  im- 
age, and  danced,  fought,  sang  and  capered,  in  a  way  that 
would  have  sent  Walpole  mad  could  he  have  seen  her. 

And  now  writing  has  made  me  hungry,  and  if  you  please 
I  will  go  and  breakfast  at  a  Cafe  with  lots  of  newspapers, 
and  gar9ons  bawling  out  "  Voila  M'sieu" — how  pleasant  to 
think  of!  The  Manchester  admirer  goes  to  London  to-day 
and  will  take  this.  If  you  want  any  more  please  send  me 
word  Poste  Resta7ite  at  Spa. 

I  am  going  to-day  to  the  Hotel  de  la  Terrasse,  where 
Becky  used  to  live,  and  shall  pass  by  Captain  Osborn's  lodg- 
ings, where  I  recollect  meeting  him  and  his  little  wife — who  has 
married  again  somebody  told  me  ; — but  it  is  always  the  way 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  15 

with   these  grandes  passions — Mrs.  Dobbins,  or  some  such 
name,  she  is  now  ;   always  an  over-rated  woman,  I  thought. 
How  curious  it  is  !      I  beheve  perfectly  in  all  those  people, 
and  feel  quite  an  interest  in  the  Inn  in  which  they  lived. 
Good  bye,  my  dear  gentleman  and  lady,  and  let  me  hear 


the  latter  is  getting  well. 


W.  M.  T. 


Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  Spa. 

August  1st  to  5th.  1848. 
My  dear  friends  : 

Whoever  you  may  be  who  receive  these  lines, — for  un- 
less I  receive  a  letter  from  the  person  whom  I  privately 
mean,  I  shall  send  them  post-paid  to  somebody  else, — I  have 
the  pleasure  to  inform  you,  that  on  yesterday,  the  30th,  at 
7  A.M.,  I  left  Brussels,  with  which  I  was  much  pleased,  and 
not  a  little  tired,  and  arrived  quite  safe  per  railroad  and  dili- 
gejice  at  the  watering  place  of  Spa.  I  slept  a  great  deal  in 
the  coach,  having  bought  a  book  at  Brussels  to  amuse  me, 
and  having  for  companions,  three  clergymen  (of  the  deplo- 
rable Romish  faith)  with  large  idolatrous  three-cornered  hats, 
who  read  their  breviaries  all  the  time  I  was  awake,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  gave  utterance  to  their  damnable  Popish  opin- 
ions when  the  stranger's  ears  were  closed ;  and  lucky  for  the 
priests  that  I  was  so  situated,  for  speaking  their  language  a 
great  deal  better  than  they  do  themselves  (being  not  only 
image-worshippers  but  Belgians,  whose  jargon  is  as  abomi- 
nable as  their  superstition)  I  would  have  engaged  them  in  a 
controversy,  in  which  I  daresay  they  would  have  been  utterly 
confounded  by  one  who  had  the  Thirty-nine  Articles  of  truth 
on  his  side.  Their  hats  could  hardly  get  out  of  the  coach 
door  when  they  quitted  the  carriage,  and  one  of  them,  when 
he  took  off  his,  to  make  a  parting  salute  to  the  company, 
quite  extinguished  a  little  passenger. 


1 6  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

We  arrived  at  Spa  at  two  o'clock,  and  being  driven  on 
the  top  of  the  diligence  to  two  of  the  principal  hotels,  they 
would  not  take  me  in  as  I  had  only  a  little  portmanteau,  or 
at  least  only  would  offer  me  a  servant's  bedroom.  These 
miserable  miscreants  did  not  see  by  my  appearance  that  I 
was  not  a  flunkey,  but  on  the  contrary,  a  great  and  popular 
author ;  and  I  intend  to  have  two  fine  pictures  painted  when 
I  return  to  England,  of  the  landlord  of  the  Hotel  d'Orange  re- 
fusing a  bed-chamber  to  the  celebrated  Titmarsh,  and  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  Hotel  d'York,  offering  Jeames  a  second- 
floor  back  closet.  Poor  misguided  people!  It  was  on  the 
30th  July  1848.  The  first  thing  I  did  after  at  length  secur- 
ing a  handsome  apartment  at  the  Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  was  to 
survey  the  town  and  partake  of  a  glass  of  water  at  the  Pouhon 
well,  where  the  late  Peter  the  Great,  the  imperator  of  the 
Bo-Russians  appears  also  to  have  drunk ;  so  that  two  great 
men  at  least  have  refreshed  themselves  at  that  fountain.  I 
was  next  conducted  to  the  baths,  where  a  splendid  concert  of 
wind  and  stringed  instruments  was  performed  under  my  win- 
dow, and  many  hundreds  of  gentle-folks  of  all  nations  were 
congregated  in  the  public  walk,  no  doubt  to  celebrate  my  ar- 
rival. They  are  so  polite  however  at  this  place  of  elegant 
ease,  that  they  didn't  take  the  least  notice  of  the  Illustrious 
Stranger,  but  allowed  him  to  walk  about  quite  unmolested 
and,  (to  all  appearance)  unremarked.  I  went  to  the  table 
dhdte  with  perfect  affability,  just  like  an  ordinary  person  ;  an 
ordinary  person  at  the  table  d'hote,  mark  the  pleasantry.  If 
that  joke  doesn't  make  your  sides  ache,  what,  my  dear  friend, 
can  move  you  ?  We  had  a  number  of  good  things,  fifteen  or 
sixteen  too  many  I  should  say.  I  was  myself  obliged  to  give 
in  at  about  the  twenty-fifth  dish ;  but  there  was  a  Flemish 
lady  near  me,  a  fair  blue-eyed  being,  who  carried  on  long 
after  the  English  author's  meal  was  concluded,  and  who  said 
at  dinner  to-day,  (when  she  beat  me  by  at  least  treble  the 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 7 

amount  of  victuals)  that  she  was  languid  and  tired  all  day, 
and  an  invalid,  so  weak  and  delicate  that  she  could  not  walk. 
"  No  wonder,"  thought  an  observer  of  human  nature,  who 
saw  her  eating  a  second  supply  of  lobster  salad,  which  she 
introduced  with  her  knife,  "  no  wonder,  my  blue-eyed  female, 
that  you  are  ill,  when  you  take  such  a  preposterous  quantity 
of  nourishment ;  "  but  as  the  waters  of  this  place  are  emi- 
nently ferruginous,  I  presume  that  she  used  the  knife  in  ques- 
tion for  the  purpose  of  taking  steel  with  her  dinner.  The 
subject  I  feel  is  growing  painful,  and  we  will,  if  you  please, 
turn  to  more  delicate  themes. 

I  retired  to  my  apartment  at  seven,  with  the  same  book 
which  I  had  purchased,  and  which  sent  me  into  a  second 
sleep  until  ten  when  it  was  time  to  go  to  rest.  At  eight  I 
was  up  and  stirring,  at  8.30  I  was  climbing  the  brow  of  a  lit- 
tle mountain  which  overlooks  this  pretty  town,  and  whence, 
from  among  firs  and  oaks,  I  could  look  down  upon  the  spires 
of  the  church,  and  the  roofs  of  the  Redoute,  and  the  princi- 
pal and  inferior  buildings  and  the  vast  plains,  and  hills  be- 
yond, topped  in  many  places  with  pine  woods,  and  covered 
with  green  crops  and  yellow  corn.  Had  I  a  friend  to  walk 
hand  in  hand  with,  him  or  her,  on  these  quiet  hills,  the  prom- 
enade methinks  might  be  pleasant.  I  thought  of  many  such 
as  I  paced  among  the  rocks  and  shrubberies.  Breakfast  suc- 
ceeded that  solitary,  but  healthy  reverie,  when  coffee  and 
eggs  were  served  to  the  Victim  of  Sentiment.  Sketch-book 
in  hand,  the  individual  last  alluded  to  set  forth  in  quest  of  ob- 
jects suitable  for  his  pencil.  But  it  is  more  respectful  to  Nat- 
ure to  look  at  her  and  gaze  with  pleasure,  rather  than  to  sit 
down  with  pert  assurance,  and  begin  to  take  her  portrait.  A 
man  who  persists  in  sketching,  is  like  one  who  insists  on 
singing  during  the  performance  of  an  opera.  What  business, 
has  he  to  be  trying  his  stupid  voice  ?  He  is  not  there  to  imi- 
tate, but  to  admire  to  the  best  of  his  power.     Thrice  the  rain 


1 8  '  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

came  down  and  drove  me  away  from  my  foolish  endeavours, 
as  I  was  making  the  most  abominable  caricatures  of  pretty, 
quaint  cottages,  shaded  by  huge  ancient  trees. 

In  the  evening  was  a  fine  music  at  the  Redoute,  which 
being  concluded,  those  who  had  a  mind  were  free  to  repair 
to  a  magnificent  neighbouring  saloon,  superbly  lighted,  where 
a  great  number  of  persons  were  assembled  amusing  them- 
selves, round  two  tables  covered  with  green  cloth  and  orna- 
mented with  a  great  deal  of  money.  They  were  engaged  at 
a  game  which  seems  very  simple ;  one  side  of  the  table  is 
marked  red  and  the  other  black,  and  you  have  but  to  decide 
which  of  the  red  or  the  black  you  prefer,  and  if  the  colour 
you  choose  is  turned  up  on  the  cards,  which  a  gentleman 
deals,  another  gentleman  opposite  to  him  gives  you  five 
franks,  or  a  napoleon  or  whatever  sum  of  money  you  have 
thought  fit  to  bet  upon  your  favourite  colour. 

But  if  your  colour  loses,  then  he  takes  your  napoleon. 
This  he  did,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  to  me  twice,  and  as  I  thought 
this  was  enough,  I  came  home  and  wrote  a  letter,  full  of  non- 
sense to — 

\August  nth] 

My  Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  : 

You  see  how  nearly  you  were  missing  this  delightful  let- 
ter, for  upon  my  word  I  had  packed  it  up  small  and  was  going 
to  send  it  off  in  a  rage  to  somebody  else,  this  very  day,  to  a 
young  lady  whom  some  people  think  over-rated  very  likely, 
or  to  some  deserving  person,  when,  O  gioja  e  felicita  (I  don't 
know  whether  that  is  the  way  to  spell  gioja,  but  rather 
pique  myself  on  the  g)  when  O  !  bonhcur  suprijme,  the  waiter 
enters  my  door  at  lo  o'clock  this  morning,  just  as  I  had  fin- 
ished writing  page  seven  of  PENDENNIS,  and  brings  me 
the  Times  newspaper  and  a  beautiful  thick  2/4  letter,  in  a 
fine  large  hand.      I  eagerly  seized — the  newspaper,  (ha  ha  !   I 


[Drawing  by  Thackeray  in  water-colour  and   pencil  (Mrs.    Brookfield).] 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 9 

had  somebody  there)  and  was  quickly  absorbed  in  its  con* 
tents.  The  news  from  Ireland  is  of  great  interest  and  im- 
portance, and  we  may  indeed  return  thanks  that  the  deplo- 
rable revolution  and  rebellion,  which  everybody  anticipated  in 
that  country,  has  been  averted  in  so  singular,  I  may  say  un- 
precedented a  manner.  How  pitiful  is  the  figure  cut  by  Mr. 
Smith  O'Brien,  and  indeed  by  Popery  altogether  !  &c.  &c. 

One  day  is  passed  away  here  very  like  its  defunct  prede- 
cessor. I  have  not  lost  any  more  money  at  the  odious  gam- 
bling table,  but  go  and  watch  the  players  there  with  a  great 
deal  of  interest.  There  are  ladies  playing — young  and  pretty 
ones  too.  One  is  very  like  a  lady  I  used  to  know,  a  curate's 
wife  in  a  street  off  Golden  Square,  whatdyoucallit  street, 
where  the  pianoforte  maker  lives  ;  and  I  daresay  this  person 
is  puzzled  why  I  always  go  and  stare  at  her  so.  She  has  her 
whole  soul  in  the  pastime,  puts  out  her  five-franc  pieces  in 
the  most  timid  way,  and  watches  them  disappear  under  the 
croupier  s  rake  with  eyes  so  uncommonly  sad  and  tender, 
that  I  feel  inclined  to  go  up  to  her  and  say  "  Madam,  you  are 
exceedingly  like  a  lady,  a  curate's  wife  whom  I  once  knew,  in 
England,  and  as  I  take  an  interest  in  you,  I  wish  you  would 
get  out  of  this  place  as  quick  as  you  can,  and  take  your  beau- 
tiful eyes  off  the  black  and  red."  But  I  suppose  it  would  be 
thought  rude  if  I  were  to  make  any  such  statement  and — ■ 
Ah  !  what  do  I  remember?  There's  no  use  in  sending  off 
this  letter  to-day,  this  is  Friday,  and  it  cannot  be  delivered 
on  Sunday  in  a  Protestant  metropolis.     There  was  no  use  in 

hurrying  home  from  Lady ,  (Never  mind,  it  is  only  an 

Irish  baronet's  wife,  who  tries  to  disguise  her  Limerick 
brogue,  but  the  fact  is  she  has  an  exceedingly  pretty  daugh- 
ter), I  say  there  was  no  use  in  hurrying  home  so  as  to  get 
this  off  by  the  post. 

Yesterday  I  didn't  know  a  soul  in  this  place,  but  got  in 
the  course  of  the  day  a  neat  note  from  a  lady  who  had  the 


20  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

delight  of  an  introduction  to  me  at  D-v-nsh-re  House,  and 
who  proposed  tea  in  the  most  flattering  manner.  Now,  I 
know  a  French  duke  and  duchess,  and  at  least  six  of  the 
most  genteel  persons  in  Spa,  and  some  of  us  are  going  out 
riding  in  a  few  minutes,  the  rain  having  cleared  off,  the  sky 
being  bright,  and  the  surrounding  hills  and  woods  looking 
uncommonly  green  and  tempting. 

A  patLse  of  two  Iw^lts  is  supposed  to  have  taken  place  since 
the  above  was  written.  A  gentleinan  enters,  as  if  from  horse- 
back, into  the  roojJi  No.  32  of  the  Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  look- 
ing 071  to  the  fountain  in  the  Grande  Place.  He  divests  him- 
self of  a  part  of  his  dress,  which  has  been  spattered  with  7nud 
during  an  arduous  but  delightful  ride  over  com77i07ts,  roads, 
woods,  nay,  fnountains.  He  curls  his  hair  in  the  77iost  kill- 
ing man7ier^  and  prepares  to  go  out  to  dinner.  The  purple 
shadows  are  falling  07t  the  Gra7tde  Place,  and  the  roofs  of  the 
houses  looking  westward  are  i7i  a  flai7ze.  The  clock  of  the  old 
church  strikes  six.  It  is  the  appointed  hour '^  he  gives  07te 
last  glance  at  the  looki7zg-glass,  and  his  last  thought  is  for — 
{see  page  4 — last  three  words.^ 

The  dinner  was  exceedingly  stupid,  I  very  nearly  fell 
asleep  by  the  side  of  the  lady  of  the  house.  It  was  all  over 
by  nine  o'clock,  half  an  hour  before  Payne  comes  to  fetch  you 
to  bed,  and  I  went  to  the  gambling  house  and  lost  two  napo- 
leons more.  May  this  be  a  warning  to  all  dissipated  middle- 
aged  persons.  I  have  just  got  two  new  novels  from  the 
library  by  Mr.  Fielding  ;  the  one  is  Amelia,  the  most  de- 
lightful portrait  of  a  woman  that  surely  ever  was  painted ; 
the  other  is  Joseph  Andrews,  which  gives  me  no  particular 
pleasure,  for  it  is  both  coarse  and  careless,  and  the  author 
makes  an  absurd  brag  of  his  twopenny  learning,  upon  which 
he  values  himself  evidently  more  than  upon  the  best  of  his 
own  qualities.      Good  night,  you  see  I  am  writing  to  you  as 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  21 

if  I  was  talking.      It  is  but  ten  o'clock,  and  yet  it  seems  quite 
time  here  to  go  to  bed. 

I  have  got  a  letter  from  Annie,  so  clever,  humourous  and 
wise,  that  it  is  fit  to  be  printed  in  a  book.  As  for  Miss  Jin- 
gleby,  I  admire  her  pretty  face  and  manners  more  than  her 
singing,  which  is  very  nice,  and  just  what  a  lady's  should  be, 
but  I  believe  my  heart  is  not  engaged  in  that  quarter.  Why 
there  is  six  times  as  much  writing  in  my  letter  as  in  yours  ! 
you  ought  to  send  me  ever  so  many  pages  if  bargains  were 
equal  between  the  male  and  female,  but  they  never  are. 
There  is  a  prince  here  who  is  seventy-two  years  of  age  and 
wears  frills  to  his  trowsers. 

What  if  I  were  to  pay  my  bill  and  go  off  this  minute  to 
the  Rhine  ?  It  would  be  better  to  see  that  than  these  gen- 
teel dandies  here.  I  don't  care  about  the  beauties  of  the 
Rhine  any  more,  but  it  is  always  pleasant  and  friendly. 
There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  sleep  at  Bonn  to-night, 
looking  out  on  the  Rhine  opposite  Drachenfels — that  is  the 
best  way  of  travelling  surely,  never  to  know  where  you  are 
going  until  the  moment  and  fate  say  "go."  Who  knows? 
By  setting  off  at  twelve  o'clock,  something  may  happen  to 
alter  the  whole  course  of  my  life  ?  perhaps  I  may  meet  with 
some  beautiful  creature  who  .  .  ,  But  then  it  is  such  a 
bore,  packing  up  those  shirts.  I  wonder  whether  anybody 
will  write  to  m.&  posle  restaiite  at  Homburg,  near  Frankfort- 
on-the-Maine  ?  And  if  you  would  kindly  send  a  line  to  Annie 
at  Captain  Alexander's,  Montpellier  Road,  Twickenham,  tell- 
ing her  to  write  to  me  there  and  not  at  Brussels,  you  would 
add,  Madame,  to  the  many  obligations  you  have  already  con- 
ferred on 

Your  most  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

I  have  made  a  dreadful  dumpy  little  letter,  but  an  enve- 
lope would  cost  1/2  more.      I  don't  like  to  say  anything  dis- 


22  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

respectful  of  Dover,  as  you  are  going  there,  but  it  seemed 
awfully  stupid.  May  I  come  and  see  you  as  I  pass  through  ? 
A  line  at  the  Ship  for  me  would  not  fail  to  bring  me. 


2  1  August.   [1848]   Home. 

\To  Mr.  Brookfield.'] 

My  dear  old  B.  : 

I  am  just  come  back  and  execute  my  first  vow,  which  was 
to  tell  you  on  landing  that  there  is  a  certain  bath  near  Minden, 
and  six  hours  from  Cologne  by  the  railway  (so  that  people 
may  go  all  the  way  at  their  ease)  where  all  sorts  of  complaints 
— including  of  course  yours,  all  and  several,  are  to  be  cured. 
The  bath  is  Rehda,  station  Rehda.  Dr.  Sutro  of  the  Lon- 
don German  Hospital,  knows  all  about  it.  I  met  an  acquaint- 
ance just  come  thence,  (a  Mrs.  Bracebridge  and  her  mart) 
who  told  me  of  it.  People  are  ground  young  there — a  young 
physician  has  been  cured  of  far  gone  tubercles  in  the  lungs ; 
maladies  of  languor,  rheumatism,  liver  complaints,  all  sorts  of 
wonders  are  performed  there,  especially  female  wonders. 

Y  not  take  Madame  there,  go,  drink,  bathe,  and  be  cured  ? 

Y  not  go  there  as  well  as  anywhere  else  this  summer  season  ? 

Y  not  come  up  and  see  this  German  doctor,  or  ask  Bullar  to 
wTite  to  him  ?  Do,  my  dear  old  fellow ;  and  I  will  vow  a 
candle  to  honest  Home's  chapel  if  you  are  cured.  Did  the 
Vienna  beer  in  which  I  drank  your  health,  not  do  you  any 
good  ?  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Brookfield,  and  believe  that 
I  am  always  affectionately  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  23 

[1848.] 

My  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  : 

Now  that  it  is  over  and  irremediable  I  am  thinkinp-  with 
a  sort  of  horror  of  a  bad  joke  in  the  last  number  of  Vanity 
Fair,  which  may  perhaps  annoy  some  body  whom  I  wouldn't 
wish  to  displease.  Amelia  is  represented  as  having  a  lady's 
maid,  and  the  lady's  maid's  name  is  Payne.  I  laughed  when 
I  wrote  it,  and  thought  that  It  was  good  fun,  but  now,  who 
knows  whether  you  and  Payne  and  everybody  won't  be  an- 
gry, and  in  fine,  I  am  in  a  great  tremor.  The  only  way  will 
be,  for  you  I  fear  to  change  Payne's  name  to  her  Christian 
one.  Pray  don't  be  angry  if  you  are,  and  forgive  me  if  I 
have  offended.  You  know  you  are  only  a  piece  of  Amelia, 
my  mother  is  another  half,  my  poor  little  wife — y  est  pour 
beaucoup. 

and  I  am 

Yours  most  sincerely 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

I  hope  you  will  write  to  say  that  you  forgive  me. 


October    1848. 
13  Young  Street,  Kensington. 

My  Dear  Lady  Brookfield  : 

I  wrote  you  a  letter  three  nights  ago  in  the  French  lan« 
guage,  describing  my  disappointment  at  not  having  received 
any  news  of  you.  Those  which  I  had  from  Mrs.  Turpin  were 
not  good,  and  it  would  have  been  a  pleasure  to  your  humble 
servant  to  have  had  a  line.  Mr.  William  dined  with  the 
children  good-naturedly  on  Sunday,  when  I  was  yet  away  at 
Brighton. 

My  parents  are  not  come  yet,  the  old  gentleman  having 


24  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

had  an  attack  of  illness  to  which  he  is  subject ;  but  they  prom- 
ised to  be  with  me  on  Tuesday,  some  day  next  week  I  hope. 
I  virtuously  refused  three  invitations  by  this  day's  post,  and 
keep  myself  in  readiness  to  pass  the  first  two  or  three  even- 
ings on  my  Papa's  lap. 

That  night  I  wrote  to  you  the  French  letter,  I  wrote  one 
to  Miss  Brandauer,  the  governess,  warning  her  off  I  didn't 
send  either.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  send  yours  though,  it  is 
rather  funny,  though  I  daresay  with  plenty  of  mistakes,  and 
written  by  quite  a  different  man,  to  the  Englishman  who  is 
yours  respectfully.  A  language  I  am  sure  would  change  a 
man  ;  so  does  a  handwriting.  I  am  sure  if  I  wrote  to  you  in 
this  hand,  and  adopted  it  for  a  continuance,  my  disposition 
and  sentiments  would  alter  and  all  my  views  of  life.  I  tried 
to  copy,  not  now  but  the  other  day,  a  letter  Miss  Procter 
showed  me  from  her  uncle,  in  a  commercial  hand,  and  found 
myself  after  three  pages  quite  an  honest,  regular,  stupid, 
commercial  man ;  such  is  sensibility  and  the  mimetic  faculty 
in  some  singularly  organized  beings.  How  many  people  are 
you  ?  You  are  Dr.  Packman's  Mrs.  B,  and  Mrs.  Jackson's 
Mrs.  B,  and  Ah  !  you  are  my  Mrs.  B.  you  know  you  are  now, 
and  quite  different  to  us  all,  and  you  are  your  sister's  Mrs.  B. 
and  Miss  Wynne's,  and  you  make  gentle  fun  of  us  all  round 
to  your  private  B.  and  offer  us  up  to  make  him  sport.  You 
see  I  am  making  you  out  to  be  an  Ogre's  wife,  and  poor 
William  the  Ogre,  to  whom  you  serve  us  up  cooked  for  din- 
ner. Well,  stick  a  knife  into  me,  here  is  my  busuTn  /  I  won't 
cry  out,  you  poor  Ogre's  wife,  I  know  you  are  good  natured 
and  soft-hearted  aicfond. 

I  have  been  re-reading  the  Hoggarty  Diamond  this  morn- 
ing ;  upon  my  word  and  honour,  if  it  doesn't  make  you  cry,  I 
shall  have  a  mean  opinion  of  you.  It  was  written  at  a  time 
of  great  affliction,  when  my  heart  was  very  soft  and  humble. 
Amen.     Ick  habe  auck  viel  geliebt. 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  25 

Why  shouldn't  I  start  off  this  instant  for  the  G.  W.  Sta- 
tion and  come  and  shake  hands,  and  ask  your  family  for  some 
dinner ;  I  should  like  it  very  much.  Well,  I  am  looking  out 
of  the  window  to  see  if  the  rain  will  stop,  or  give  me  an  ex- 
cuse for  not  going  to  Hatton  to  the  Chief  Baron's.  I  won't 
go — ^that's  a  comfort. 

I  am  writing  to  William  to  ask  him  to  come  and  dine  to- 
morrow, we  will  drink  your  health  if  he  comes.  I  should  like 
to  take  another  sheet  and  go  on  tittle-tattling,  it  drops  off 
almost  as  fast  as  talking.  I  fancy  you  lying  on  the  sofa,  and 
the  boy  outside,  walking  up  and  down  the  oss.  But  I  wont. 
To-morrow  is  Sunday.  Good  bye,  dear  lady,  and  believe 
me  yours  in  the  most  friendly  manner. 

W.  M.  T. 

\_Reply  io  an  invitation  to  dinner,  a  few  days  later.'] 

Had  I  but  ten  minutes  sooner 

Got  your  hospitable  line, 
'Twould  have  been  delight  and  honour 

With  a  gent  like  you  to  dine ; — 
But  my  word  is  passed  to  others, 

Fitz,  he  is  engaged  too : 
Agony  my  bosom  smothers, 

As  I  write  adieu,  adieu  ! 

{Lines  sent  in  a  note  of  ahoni  tJjis  date.] 

I  was  making  this  doggerel  instead  of  writing  my  Punch 
this  morning,  shall  I  send  it  or  no  f 

'Tis  one  o'clock,  the  boy  from  Punch  is  sitting  in  the  pas- 
sage here. 

It  used  to  be  the  hour  of  lunch  at  Portman  Street,  near  Port- 
man  Squeer. 


26  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY, 

O  !    stupid  little    printers'  boy,   I  cannot  write,  my  head  is 

queer, 
And    all    my  foolish    brains    employ  in    thinking-    of  a  lady 

dear. 
It  was  but  yesterday,  and    on  my  honest  word  it  seems  a 

year— 
As  yet  that  person  was  not  gone,  as  yet  I   saw  that  lady 

dear — 
She's  left  us  now,  my  boy,  and  all  this  town,  this  life,  is  blank 

and  drear. 
Thou    printers'    devil    in    the  hall,   didst    ever    see  my  lady 

dear. 
You'd  understand,  you  little  knave,  I  think,  if  you  could  only 

see  her. 
Why  now  I  look  so  glum  and  grave  for  losing  of  this  lady 

dear. 
A   lonely   man    I    am    in    life,  my  business    is    to  joke  and 

jeer, 
A  lonely  man  without  a  wife,   God  took  from    me    a   lady 

dear. 
A  friend  I  had,  and  at  his  side, — the  story  dates  from  seven 

long  year — 
One  day  I  found  a  blushing  bride,  a  tender  lady  kind  and 

dear ! 
They  took  me  in,  they  pitied  me,  they  gave  me  kindly  words 

and  cheer, 
A  kinder  welcome  who  shall  see,  than  yours,  O,  friend  and 

lady  dear  ? 


The  rest  is  wanting. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY,  27 

1848. 

\To  Mr.  Brookfield.'\ 

My  dear  Vieux  : 

When  I  came  home  last  night  I  found  a  beautiful  opera 
ticket  for  this  evening, — Jenny  Lind,  charming  bally,  box 
72. — I  am  going  to  dine  at  home  with  the  children  and 
shall  go  to  the  opera,  and  will  leave  your  name  down  be- 
low. Do  come  and  we  will  sit,  we  2,  and  see  the  piece 
like  2  lords,  and  we  can  do  the  other  part  afterwards.  I 
present  my  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  and 
am  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

If  you  can  come  to  dinner,  there's  a  curry. 


Oct.  4th  1848 

Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  : 

If  you  would  write  me  a  line  to  say  that  you  made  a  good 
journey  and  were  pretty  well,  to  Sir  Thomas  Cullam's,  Hard- 
wick,  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  you  would  confer  indeed  a  favour 
on  yours  respectfully.  William  dined  here  last  night  and 
was  pretty  cheerful.  As  I  passed  by  Portman  Street,  after 
you  were  gone,  just  to  take  a  look  up  at  the  windows,  the 
usual  boy  started  forward  to  take  the  horse.  I  laughed  a 
sad  laugh.  I  didn't  want  nobody  to  take  the  horse.  It's  a 
long  time  since  you  were  away.  The  cab  is  at  the  door  to 
take  me  to  the  railroad.  Mrs.  Procter  was  very  kind  and  Ade- 
laide sympathised  with  me.  I  have  just  opened  my  desk, 
there  are  all  the  papers  I  had  at  Spa — Pendennis,  unread 
since,  and  your  letter.  Good  bye  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield,  al- 
ways yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


28  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

n homme  propose.  Since  this  was  wrote  the  author  went 
to  the  railroad,  found  that  he  arrived  a  minute  too  late,  and 
that  there  were  no  trains  for  4^  hours.  So  I  came  back  into 
town  and  saw  the  publishers,  who  begged  and  implored  me 
so,  not  to  go  out  pleasuring,  &c.,  that  I  am  going  to  Brighton 
instead  of  Bury.  I  looked  in  the  map,  I  was  thinking  of 
coming  to  Weston  -  Super  -  Mare, — only  it  seemed  such  a 
hint. 


[Club] 
\To  Mr.  Brookfield^ 


October  1848. 


My  dear  Reverence  : 

I  take  up  the  pen  to  congratulate  you  on  the  lovely 
weather,  which  must,  with  the  company  of  those  to  whom  you 
are  attached,  render  your  stay  at  Clevedon*  so  delightful.  It 
snowed  here  this  morning,  since  which  there  has  been  a  fog 
succeeded  by  a  drizzly  rain,  I  have  passed  the  day  writing 
and  trying  to  alter  Pendennis,  which  is  without  any  man- 
ner of  doubt,  awfully  stupid  ;  the  very  best  passages,  which 
pleased  the  author  only  last  week,  looking  hideously  dull  by 
the  dull  fog  of  this  day.  I  pray,  I  pray,  that  it  may  be  the 
weather.  Will  you  say  something  for  it  at  church  next 
Sunday  ? 

My  old  parents  arrived  last  night,  it  was  quite  a  sight  to 
see  the  poor  old  mother  with  the  children :  and  Bradbury, 
the  printer,  coming  to  dun  me  for  Pendennis  this  morning. 
I  slunk  away  from  home,  where  writing  is  an  utter  impossi- 

*  Clevedon  Court,  Somersetshire,  often  referred  to  in  these  letters,  and  already  mentioned 
in  the  note  p.  7,  the  home  of  Sir  Charles  Elton,  Mrs.  Brookfield's  father. 

Clevedon  Court  dates  from  the  reign  of  Edward  l\.  (1307  to  1327),  and  though  added  to  and 
altered  in  Elizabeth's  time,  the  original  plan  can  be  clearly  traced  and  much  of  the  14th  Cen- 
tury work  is  untouched.  The  manor  of  Clevedon  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  Eltons  in  1709, 
the  present  possessor  being  Sir  Edmund  Elton,  8th  Baronet. 

The  manor-house  is  the  original  of  Castlewood  in  Esmond. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


29 


bility,  and  have  been  operating  on  it  here.  The  real  truth 
is  now,  that  there  is  half  an  hour  before  dinner,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do,  unless  I  write  you  a  screed,  to  pass  away 
the  time.  There  are  secret  and  selfish  motives  in  the  most 
seemingly  generous  actions  of  men. 

T'other  day  I  went   to   Harley  Street  and  saw  the  most 
beautiful  pair  of  embroidered  slippers,  worked  for  a  lady  at 


whose  feet 


;  and  I  begin  more  and  more  to  think 


\yxx4    Hti^hx.    \tiJX4Uu  1 


^^\^^LlciJi.  :\ijJ^  ilu  j(ty^   Lc    ^  "  aL\\^\uu  Leu,  I'^l*^ 

Adelaide  Procter,  an  uncommonly  nice,  dear,  good  girl.  Old 
Dilke  of  the  AthericEum,  vows  that  Procter  and  his  wife,  be- 
tween them,  wrote  yane  Eyre,  and  when  I  protest  ignorance, 
says,  "  Pooh  !  you  know  who  wrote  it,  you  are  the  deepest 
rogue  in  England,  &c."  I  wonder  whether  it  can  be  true  ? 
It  is  just  possible,  and  then  what  a  singular  circumstance  is 
the  +  fire  of  the  two  dedications.*  O!  Mon  Dieu  !  but  I 
wish  Pendennis  were  better. 

As  if  I  had  not  enough  to  do,  I  have  begun  to  blaze  away 
in  the  Chrojiicle  ao^ain  :  its  an  awful  bribe — that  five  o-uineas 

*  Ja7ie  Eyre  to  Thackeray,  Vanity  Fair  to  Barry  Cornwall. 


30  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

an  article.  After  I  saw  you  on  Sunday  I  did  actually  come 
back  straight,  on  the  omnibus.  I  have  been  to  the  Cider  Cel- 
lars since  again  to  hear  the  man  sing  about  going  to  be 
hanged,  I  have  had  a  headache  afterwards,  I  have  drawn,  I 
have  written,  I  have  distracted  my  mind  with  healthy  labor. 
Now  wasn't  this  much  better  than  plodding  about  with  you 
in  heavy  boots  amidst  fields  and  woods  ?  But  unless  you 
come  back,  and  as  soon  as  my  work  is  done,  I  thought  a  day 
or  two  would  be  pleasantly  spent  in  your  society,  if  the  house 
of  Clevedon  admits  of  holding  any  more. 

Does  Harry  Hallam  go  out  with  dog  and  gun  ?  I  should 
like  to  come  and  see  him  shoot,  and  in  fact,  get  up  field  sports 
through  him  and  others.  Do  you  remark  all  that  elaborate 
shading,  the  shot  &c.,  ?  All  that  has  been  done  to  while 
away  the  time  until  the  dinner's  ready,  and  upon  my  con- 
science I  believe  it  is  very  near  come.  Yes,  it  is  6|.  If  Mrs. 
Parr  is  at  Clevedon,  present  the  respects  of  Mephistopheles, 
as  also  to  any  other  persons  with  whom  I  am  acquainted  in 
your  numerous  and  agreeable  family  circle. 


1848 
\ToMr.  Brookfield.'] 

Va  diner  chez  ton  classique  ami,  tant  renomme  pour  le 
Grec.  Je  ne  pourrais  mieux  faire  que  de  passer  la  soiree 
avec  une  famille  que  j'ai  negligee  quelque  pen — la  mienne. 
Oui,  Monsieur,  dans  les  caresses  innocentes  de  mes  enfans 
cheris,  dans  la  conversation  edifiante  de  Monsieur  mon  beau- 
pere,  je  tacherai  de  me  consoler  de  ta  seconde  infidelite. 
Samedi  je  ne  puis  venir :  J'ai  d'autres  engagemens  auxquelsje 
ne  veux  pas  manqucr.  Va.  Sois  heureux.  Je  te  pardonne. 
Ton  mclancholique  ami 

Chevalier  de  Titmarsh. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY,  3 1 

\\st  November,  1848.] 

Dear  Mrs.  Brookfield: 

1  was  at  Oxford  by  the  time  your  dinner  was  over,  and 
found  eight  or  nine  jovial  gentlemen  in  black,  feasting  in  the 
common  room  and  drinking  port  wine  solemnly. 
We  had  a  great  sitting  of  Port  wine,  and  I  daresay  the  even- 
ing was  pleasant  enough.  They  gave  me  a  bed  in  College, 
— such  a  bed,  I  could  not  sleep.  Yesterday,  (for  this  is  half 
past  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  would  you  believe  it  ?)  a 
party  of  us  drove  in  an  Oxford  Cart  to  Blenheim,  where  we  saw 


U  yU  fr^cttfcV-  Vu  tw  W/Ut*u    U«nttl  <4(n*  .'hC^ih.  U  t  J  i  [unilj  A 


some  noble  pictures,  a  portrait  by  Raphael,  one  of  the  great 
Raphaels  of  the  world, — (Look,  this  is  college  paper,  with 
beautiful  lines  already  made) — A  series  of  magnificent  Ru- 
bens, one  of  which,  representing  himself  walking  in  a  garden 
with  Mrs.  Rubens  and  the  baby,  did  one  good  to  look  at  and 
remember ;  and  some  very  questionable  Titians  indeed — I 
mean  on  the  score  of  authenticity,  not  of  morals,  though  the 
subjects  are  taken  from  the  loves  of  those  extraordinary  gods 
and  goddesses,  mentioned  in  Lempriere's  Dictionary, — and 
we  walked  in  the  park,  with  much  profit  ;  surveying  the  great 
copper-coloured  trees,  and  the  glum  old  bridge  and  pillar  and 
Rosamond's  Well ;  and  the  queer,  grand,  ugly  but  magnifi- 
cent house,  a  piece  of  splendid  barbarism,  yet  grand  and  im- 
posing somehow,  like  a  chief  raddled  over  with  war-paint,  and 
attired  with  careful  hideousness.     Well,  I  can't  make  out  the 


32  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

simile  on  paper,  though  it's  in  my  own  mind  pretty  clear. 
What  you  would  have  liked  best  was  the  chapel  dedicated 
to  God  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborouo-h.  The  monument  to 
the  latter,  occupies  the  whole  place,  almost,  so  that  the  for- 
mer is  quite  secondary.  O  !  what  comes  ?  It  was  the  scout 
who  brought  me  your  letter,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to 
you  for  it.     .     .     . 

I  was  very  sorry  indeed  to  hear  that  you  have  been  ill — I 
was  afraid  the  journey  would  agitate  you,  that  was  what  I  was 
thinking  of  as  I  was  lying  in  the  Oxford  man's  bed  awake. 

.l^^atc  .  liuii  lwt4  uA*4  llwM  |1u.«vt*H«<:J  M  \  U/«i  ^tK«   lulu  0>i^ 

WuU  w  ill"  I-  %i,  CkiK,UL  {\  tti*  <UM0i  Juu^^UlurtM  llJ^  CoaamI  feWC^ 

After  Blenheim  I  went  to  Magdalen  Chapel  to  a  High 
Mass  there.  O  cherubim  and  seraphim,  how  you  would  like 
it!  The  chapel  is  the  most  sumptuous  edifice,  carved  and 
frittered  all  over  with  the  richest  stone-work  like  the  lace  of 
a  lady's  boudoir.  The  windows  are  fitted  with  pictures  of 
the  saints  painted  in  a  grey  colour, — real  Catholic  saints, 
male  and  female  I  mean,  so  that  I  wondered  how  they  got 
there ;  and  this  makes  a  sort  of  rich  twilight  in  the  church, 
which  is  lighted  up  by  a  multitude  of  wax  candles  in  gold 
sconces,  and  you  say  your  prayers  in  carved  stalls  wadded 
with  velvet  cushions.     They  have  a  full  chorus  of  boys,  some 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  Z2> 

two  dozen  I  should  think,  who  sing  quite  ravishingly.  It  is  a 
sort  of  perfection  of  sensuous  gratification  ;  children's  voices 
charm  me  so,  that  they  set  all  my  sensibilities  into  a  quiver ; 
do  they  you  ?  I  am  sure  they  do.  These  pretty  brats  with 
sweet  innocent  voices  and  white  robes,  sing  quite  celestially ; 
— no,  not  celestially,  for  I  don't  believe  it  is  devotion  at  all, 
but  a  high  delight  out  of  which  one  comes,  not  impurified  I 
hope,  but  with  a  thankful  pleased  gentle  frame  of  mind.'  I 
suppose  I  have  a  great  faculty  of  enjoyment.  At  Clevedon 
I  had  gratification  in  looking  at  trees,  landscapes,  effects  of 
shine  and  shadow  &c.,  which  made  that  dear  old  Inspector 
who  walked  with  me,  wonder.  Well  there  can  be  no  harm  in 
this  I  am  sure.  What  a  shame  it  is  to  go  on  bragging  about 
what  is  after  all  sheer  roaring  good  health  for  the  most  part ; 
and  now  I  am  going  to  breakfast.  Good  bye.  I  have  been 
lionising  the  town  ever  since,  and  am  come  home  quite  tired. 
I  have  breakfasted  here,  lunched  at  Christ  Church,  seen  Mer- 
ton,  and  All  Souls  with  Norman  Macdonald,  where  there  is 
a  beautiful  library  and  a  boar's  head  in  the  kitchen,  over 
which  it  was  good  to  see  Norman's  eyes  gloating;  and  it 
being  All  Saints'  day,  I  am  going  to  chapel  here,  where  they 
have  also  a  very  good  music  I  am  told. 

Are  you  better  ma'am  ?  I  hope  you  are.  On  Friday  I 
hope  to  have  the  pleasure  to  see  you,  and  am  till  then,  and 
even  till  Saturday, 

Yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


\2c^th  Nov:   1848.] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

I  am  very  much  pained  and  shocked  at  the  news  brought 
at   dinner    to-day    that    poor    dear  Charles  Duller    is    gone. 
Good  God !  think  about  the  poor  mother  surviving,  and  what 
3 


34  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

an  anguish  that  must  be  !  If  I  were  to  die  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  my  mother  Hving  beyond  me,  as  I  daresay  she  wilh 
But  isn't  it  an  awful,  awful,  sudden  summons  ?  There  go 
wit,  fame,  friendship,  ambition,  high  repute !  Ah  !  aimons 
nous  bien.  It  seems  to  me  that  is  the  only  thing  we  can 
carry  away.  When  we  go,  let  us  have  some  who  love  us 
wherever  we  are.  I  send  you  this  little  line  as  I  tell  you  and 
William  most  things.     Good  night. 


Tuesday.      [Nov.  1848.] 
Good  night  my  dear  Madam. 

Since  I  came  home  from  dining  with  Mr.  Morier,  I  have 
been  writing  a  letter  to  Mr.  T.  Carlyle  and  thinking  about 
other  things  as  well  as  the  letter  all  the  time ;  and  I  have 
read  over  a  letter  I  received  to-day  which  apologizes  for 
everything  and  whereof  the  tremulous  author  ceaselessly 
doubts  and  misgives.  Who  knows  whether  she  is  not  con- 
verted by  Joseph  Bullar  by  this  time.  She  is  a  sister  of 
mine,  and  her  name  is  God  bless  her. 

Wednesday.  I  was  at  work  until  seven  o'clock ;  not  to 
very  much  purpose,  but  executing  with  great  labour  and 
hardship  the  days  work.  Then  I  went  to  dine  with  Dr. 
Hall,  the  crack  doctor  here,  a  literate  man,  a  traveller,  and 
otherwise  a  kind  bigwig.  After  dinner  we  went  to  hear 
Mr.  Sortain  lecture,  of  whom  you  may  perhaps  have  heard 
me  speak,  as  a  great,  remarkable  orator  and  preacher  of 
the  Lady  Huntingdon  Connexion.  (The  paper  is  so  greasy 
that  I  am  forced  to  try  several  pens  and  manners  of  hand- 
writing, but  none  will  do.)  W^e  had  a  fine  lecture  with 
brilliant  Irish  metaphors  and  outbursts  of  rhetoric  ad- 
dressed to  an  assembly  of  mechanics,  shopboys  and  young 
women,   who  could   not,  and  perhaps  had  best   not,  under- 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  35 

stand  that  flashy  speaker.  It  was  about  the  origin  of  na- 
tions he  spoke,  one  of  those  big-  themes  on  which  a  man 
may  talk  eternally  and  with  a  never  ending  outpouring  of 
words ;  and  he  talked  magnificendy,  about  the  Arabs  for 
the  most  part,  and  tried  to  prove  that  because  the  Arabs 
acknowledged  their  descent  from  Ishmael  or  Esau,  there- 
fore the  Old  Testament  History  was  true.  But  the  Arabs 
may  have  had  Esau  for  a  father  and  yet  the  bears  may  not 
have  eaten  up  the  little  children  for  quizzing  Elisha's  bald 
head.  As  I  was  writing  to  Carlyle  last  night,  (I  haven't  sent 
the  letter  as  usual,  and  shall  not  most  likely,)  Saint  Stephen 
was  pelted  to  death  by  Old  Testaments,  and  Our  Lord  was 
killed  like  a  felon  by  the  law,  which  He  came  to  repeal.  I 
was  thinking  about  Joseph  Bullar's  doctrine  after  I  went  to 
bed,  founded  on  what  I  cannot  but  think  a  blasphemous  as- 
ceticism, which  has  obtained  in  the  world  ever  so  long,  and 
which  is  disposed  to  curse,  hate  and  undervalue  the  world 
altogether.  Why  should  we  ?  What  we  see  here  of  this 
world  is  but  an  expression  of  God's  will,  so  to  speak^ — a  beau- 
tiful earth  and  sky  and  sea — -beautiful  affections  and  sorrows, 
wonderful  changes  and  developments  of  creation,  suns  rising, 
stars  shining,  birds  singing,  clouds  and  shadows  changing 
and  fading,  people  loving  each  other,  smiling  and  crying,  the 
multiplied  phenomena  of  Nature,  multiplied  in  fact  and  fancy, 
in  Art  and  Science,  in  every  way  that  a  man's  intellect  or  ed- 
ucation or  imaofination  can  be  brought  to  bear. — And  who  is 
to  say  that  we  are  to  ignore  all  this,  or  not  value  them  and 
love  them,  because  there  is  another  unknown  world  yet  to 
come  ?  Why  that  unknown  future  world  is  but  a  manifesta- 
tion of  God  Almighty's  will,  and  a  development  of  Nature, 
neither  more  nor  less  than  this  in  which  we  are,  and  an  angel 
glorified  or  a  sparrow  on  a  gutter  are  equally  parts  of  His 
creation.  The  light  upon  all  the  saints  in  Heaven  is  just 
as  much  and  no  more   God's  work,  as  the  sun  which  shall 


36  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

shine  to-morrow  upon  this  infinitesimal  speck  of  creation, 
and  under  which  I  shall  read,  please  God,  a  letter  fi-om  my 
kindest  Lady  and  fi-iend.  About  my  future  state  I  don't 
know;  I  leave  it  in  the  disposal  of  the  awful  Father, — but  for 
to-day  I  thank  God  that  I  can  love  you,  and  that  you  yonder 
and  others  besides  are  thinking  of  me  with  a  tender  regard. 
Hallelujah  may  be  greater  in  degree  than  this,  but  not  in 
kind,  and  countless  ages  of  stars  may  be  blazing  infinitely, 
but  you  and  I  have  a  right  to  rejoice  and  believe  in  our 
little  part  and  to  trust  in  to-day  as  in  tomorrow.  God  bless 
my  dear  lady  and  her  husband,  I  hope  you  are  asleep  now, 
and  I  must  go  too,  for  the  candles  are  just  winking  out. 

Thursday.  I  am  glad  to  see  among  the  new  inspectors, 
in  the  Gazette  in  this  morning's  papers,  my  old  acquaintance 
Longueville  Jones,  an  excellent,  worthy,  lively,  accomplished 
fellow,  whom  I  like  the  better  because  he  flung  up  his  fellow 
and  tutorship  at  Cambridge  in  order  to  marry  on  nothing  a 
year.  We  worked  in  Galignani's  newspaper  for  ten  francs  a 
day,  very  cheerfully  ten  years  ago,  since  when  he  has  been  a 
schoolmaster,  taken  pupils  or  bid  for  them,  and  battled  man- 
fully with  fortune.  William  will  be  sure  to  like  him,  I  think, 
he  is  so  honest,  and  cheerful.  I  have  sent  off  my  letter  to 
Lady  Ashburton  this  morning,  ending  with  some  pretty  phrases 
about  poor  old  C.  B.  whose  fate  affects  me  very  much,  so 
much  that  I  feel  as  if  I  were  making  my  will  and  getting  ready 
to  march  too.  Well  ma'am,  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  pre- 
sentiments as  you  have,  and  to  sickly  fancies  and  desponden- 
cies ;  but  I  should  like  to  see  before  I  die,  and  think  of  it 
daily  more  and  more,  the  commencement  of  Jesus  Christ's 
christianism  in  the  world,  where  I  am  sure  people  may  be 
made  a  hundred  times  happier  than  by  its  present  forms,  Ju- 
daism, asceticism,  Bullarism.  I  wonder  will  He  come  again 
and  tell  it  us.  We  are  taught  to  be  ashamed  of  our  best  feel- 
ings all  our  life.     I  don't  want  to  blubber  upon  everybody's 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  2,7 

shoulders  ;  but  to  have  a  good  will  for  all,  and  a  strong,  very 
strong  regard  for  a  few,  which  I  shall  not  be  ashamed  to  own 
to  them.  .  .  .  It  is  near  upon  three  o'clock,  and  I  am 
getting  rather  anxious  about  the  post  from  Southampton 
via  London.  Why,  if  it  doesn't  come  in,  you  won't  get  any 
letter  to-morrow,  no,  nothing — and  I  made  so  sure.  Well,  I 
will  try  and  go  to  work,  it  is  only  one  more  little  drop.  God 
bless  you,  dear  lady. 

Friday.  I  have  had  a  good  morning's  work  and 
at  two  o'clock  comes  your  letter ;  dear  friend,  thank  you. 
What  a  coward  I  was,  I  will  go  and  walk  and  be  happy  for  an 
hour,  it  is  a  grand  frosty  sunshine.  Tomorrow  morning  early 
back  to  London. 


31  January,  1849 

Ship,  Dover. 

Just  before  going  away. 
How  long  is  it  since  I  have  written  to  you  in  my  natural 
handwriting  ?  .  .  .  I  am  so  far  on  my  way  to  Paris,  Meu- 
rice's  Hotel,  Rue  de  Rivoli.  ...  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  to  this  great,  I  may  say  decisive  step,  when  I  came  to 
see  you  on  Saturday,  before  you  went  to  Hither  Green.  I 
didn't  go  to  the  Sterling,  as  it  was  my  last  day,  and  due  nat- 
urally to  the  family.  We  went  to  bed  at  half  past  nine  o'clock. 
To-day  I  went  round  on  a  circuit  of  visits,  including  Turpin 
at  your  house.  It  seems  as  if  I  was  going  on  an  ever  so  long 
journey.  Have  you  any  presentiments  ?  I  know  some  peo- 
ple who  have.  Thank  you  for  your  note  of  this  morning,  and 
my  dear  old  William  for  his  regard  for  me ;  try  you  and  con- 
serve the  same.  .  .  .  There  is  a  beautiful  night,  and  I  am 
going  by  Calais.  Here,  with  a  step  on  the  steaming  vessel, 
I  am,  affectionately  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


38  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

Meurice's  Hotel,  Rivoli  Street, 

Paris.  \Feb  :  1849.] 
If  you  please,  I  am  come  home  very  tired  and  sleepy  from 
the  Opera,  where  my  friend  Rothschild  gave  me  a  place  in  his 
box.  There  was  a  grand  ballet  of  which  I  could  not  under- 
stand one  word,  that  is  one  pas,  for  not  a  word  was  spoken ; 
and  I  saw  some  celebrities  in  the  place.  The  President,  M. 
Lamartine,  in  a  box  near  a  handsome  lady ;  M.  Marrast,  in  a 
box  near  a  handsome  lady  ;  there  was  one  with  a  bouquet  of 
lilies,  or  some  sort  of  white  flowers,  so  enormous  that  it  looked 
like  a  bouquet  in  a  pantomine,  which  was  to  turn  into  some- 
thing, or  out  of  which  a  beautiful  dancer  was  to  spring.  The 
house  was  crammed  with  well-dressed  folks,  and  is  sumptuous 
and  splendid  beyond  measure.  But  O  !  think  of  old  Lamar- 
tine in  a  box  by  a  handsome  lady.  Not  any  harm  in  the  least, 
that  I  know  of,  only  that  the  most  venerable  and  grizzled 
bearded  statesmen  and  philosophers  find  time  from  their  busi- 
ness and  political  quandaries,  to  come  and  sigh  and  ogle  a  lit- 
tle at  the  side  of  ladies  in  boxes. 

I  am  undergoing  the  quarantine  of  family  dinners  with  the 
most  angelic  patience.  Yesterday  being  the  first  day,  it  was 
an  old  friend  and  leg  of  lamb.  I  graciously  said  to  the  old 
friend,  "  Why  the  deuce  wouldn't  you  let  me  go  and  dine  at 
a  restaurant,  don't  you  suppose  I  have  leg  of  lamb  at  home  ?  " 
To-day  with  an  aunt  of  mine,  where  we  had  mock  turtle  soup, 
by  Heavens  !  and  I  arranged  with  my  other  aunt  for  another 
dinner.  I  knew  how  it  would  be ;  it  must  be  ;  and  there's 
my  cousin  to  come  off  yet,  who  says,  "you  must  come  and 
dine.  I  haven't  a  soul,  but  will  give  you  a  good  Indian  din- 
ner." I  will  make  a  paper  in  Punch  about  it,  and  exhale  my 
griefs  in  print.  I  will  tell  you  about  my  cousin  when  I  get 
home, — when  I  get  to  Portman  Street  that  is.  .  .  .  What 
brought  me  to  this  place  ?     Well  I  am  glad  I  came,  it  will  give 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  39 

me  a  subject  for  at  least  six  weeks  in  Punch,  of  which  I  was 
getting  so  weary  that  I  thought  I  must  have  done  with  it. 

Are  you  better  for  a  Httle  country  air  ?  Did  you  walk  in 
that  cheerful  paddock  where  the  cows  are  ?  And  did  you 
have  clothes  enough  to  your  bed  ?  I  shall  go  to  mine  now, 
after  writing  this  witty  page,  for  I  have  been  writing  and  spin- 
ning about  all  day,  and  am  very  tired  and  sleepy  if  you  please. 
Boil  Soir,  Madame.     ... 

Saturday.  Though  there  is  no  use  in  writing,  because 
there  is  no  post,  but  que  voulez  vous,  Madame  f  On  aime  a 
dire  un  petit  bonjour  a  ses  amis.  I  feel  almost  used  to  the 
place  already  and  begin  to  be  interested  about  the  politics. 
Some  say  there's  a  revolution  ready  for  today.  The  town  is 
crammed  with  soldiers,  and  one  has  a  curious  feeling  of  inter- 
est and  excitement,  as  in  walking  about  on  ice  that  is  rather 
dangerous,  and  may  tumble  in  at  any  moment.  I  had  three 
newspapers  for  my  breakfast,  which  my  man,)  it  is  rather 
grand  having  a  laquais  de  place,  but  I  can't  do  without  him, 
and  invent  all  sorts  of  pretexts  to  employ  him)  bought  for  five 
pence  of  your  money.  The  mild  papers  say  we  have  escaped 
an  immense  danger,  a  formidable  plot  has  been  crushed,  and 
Paris  would  have  been  on  fire  and  fury  but  for  the  timely  dis- 
covery. The  Red  Republicans  say,  "  Plot !  no  such  thing, 
the  infernal  tyrants  at  the  head  of  affairs  wish  to  find  a  pre- 
text for  persecuting  patriots,  and  the  good  and  the  brave  are 
shut  up  in  dungeons."  Plot  or  no  plot,  which  is  it?  I  think 
I  prefer  to  believe  that  there  has  been  a  direful  conspiracy, 
and  that  we  have  escaped  a  tremendous  danger.  It  makes 
one  feel  brave  somehow,  and  as  if  one  had  some  merit  in 
overthrowing  this  rascally  conspiracy.  I  am  going  to  the 
Chamber  directly.  The  secretary  at  the  Embassy  got  me  a 
ticket.  The  Embassy  is  wonderfully  civil ;  Lord  Normanby 
is  my  dearest  friend,  he  is  going  to  take  me  to  the  President, 
— very  likely  to  ask  me  to  dinner.     You  would  have  thought 


40  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

I  was  an  earl,  I  was  received  with  so  much  of  euipressenieni 
by  the  ambassador. 

I  hadn't  been  in  Paris  ten  minutes,  before  I  met  ten  people 
of  my  acquaintance.  .  .  .  As  for Oh  !  it  was  won- 
derful. We  have  not  met  for  five  years  on  account  of  a  cool- 
ness,— that  is  a  great  heat, — resulting  out  of  a  dispute  in 
which  I  was  called  to  be  umpire  and  gave  judgment  against 
her  and  her  husband  ;  but  we  have  met,  it  is  forgotten.  .  .  . 
Poor  soul,  she  performed  beautifully.  "  What,  William,  not 
the  least  changed,  just  the  same  as  ever,  in  spite  of  all  your 
fame  ?  " — Fame  be  hanged,  thought  I,  pardonnez-moi  le  vtot, 
— "just  the  same  simple  creature."  O  !  what  a  hypocrite  I 
felt.  I  like  her  too ;  but  she  poor,  poor  soul — well,  she  did 
her  comedy  exceedingly  well.  I  could  only  say,  "  My  dear, 
you  have  grown  older,"  that  was  the  only  bit  of  truth  that 
passed,  and  she  didn't  like  it.  Quand  vous  serez  bien  vieille, 
and  I  say  to  you,  "  my  dear  you  are  grown  old  "  (only  I  shall 
not  say  "  my  dear,"  but  something  much  more  distant  and  re- 
spectful), I  wonder  whether  you  will  like  it.  Now  it  is  time 
to  go  to  the  Chamber,  but  it  was  far  pleasanter  to  sit  and 
chatter  with  Madame. 

I  have  been  to  see  a  piece  of  a  piece  called  the  Mys feres 
de  Londres,  since  the  above,  and  most  tremendous  mysteries 
they  were  indeed.  It  appears  that  there  lived  in  London, 
three  or  four  years  ago,  a  young  grandee  of  Spain  and  count 
of  the  Empire,  the  Marquis  of  Rio  Santo,  an  Irishman  by 
birth,  who  in  order  to  free  his  native  country  from  the  intoler- 
able tyranny  of  England,  imagined  to  organize  an  extraor- 
dinary conspiracy  of  the  rogues  and  thieves  of  the  metropolis, 
with  whom  some  of  the  principal  merchants,  jewellers  and 
physicians  were  concerned,  who  were  to  undermine  and  de- 
stroy somehow  the  infamous  British  power.  The  merchants 
were  to  forge  and  utter  bank-notes,  the  jewellers  to  sell  sham 
diamonds  to  the  aristocracy,  and  so  ruin  them  ;  the  physi- 


[From  a  drawing  by  Thackeray  in  the   possession   of  Mrs.    Brookfield.l 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  4 1 

cians  to  murder  suitable  persons  by  their  artful  prescriptions, 
and  the  whole  realm  being  plunged  into  anarchy  by  their 
manoeuvres,  Ireland  was  to  get  its  own  in  the  midst  of  the 
squabble.  This  astonishing  marquis  being  elected  supreme 
chief  of  a  secret  society  called  the  "  Gentlemen  of  the  Night," 
had  his  spies  and  retainers  among  the  very  highest  classes  of 
society.  The  police  and  the  magistrature  were  corrupted,  the 
very  beef-eaters  of  the  Queen  contaminated,  and  you  saw  the 
evidence  of  such  a  conspiracy  as  would  make  your  eyes  open 
with  terror.  Who  knows,  madame,  but  perhaps  some  of  the 
school  inspectors  themselves  were  bought  over,  and  a  Jesu- 
itic  C k,  an    ambitious   T ,   an    unscrupulous    B 

himself,  may  have  been  seduced  to  mislead  our  youth,  and 
teach  our  very  babes  and  sucklings  a  precocious  perverseness  ? 
This  is  getting  to  be  so  very  like  print  that  I  shall  copy 
it  very  likely,*  all  but  the  inspector  part,  for  a  periodical  with 
which  I  am  connected.  Well,  numbers  of  beautiful  women 
were  in  love  with  the  Marquis,  or  otherwise  subjugated  by 
him,  and  the  most  lovely  and  innocent  of  all,  was  employed 
to  go  to  St.  James'  on  a  drawing-room  day,  and  steal  the  dia- 
monds of  Lady  Brompton,  the  mistress  of  his  grace  Prince 
Demetri  Tolstoi,  the  Russian  ambassador,  who  had  lent  Lady 
Brompton  the  diamonds  to  sport  at  St.  James',  before  he  sent 
them  off  to  his  imperial  master  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  for 
whom  the  trifles  in  question  were  purchased.  Lady  Bromp- 
ton came  to  court  having  her  train  held  up  by  her  jockey ; 
Susanna  came  to  court,  her  train  likewise  carried  by  her  page, 
one  or  both  of  them  were  affides  of  the  association  of  the 
"Gentlemen  of  the  Night."  The  jockeys  were  changed,  and 
Lady  Brompton's  jewels  absolutely  taken  off  her  neck.  So 
great  was  the  rage  of  his  grace  Prince  Demetri  Tolstoi,  that 
he  threatened  war  should  be  declared  by  his  emperor  unless 
the  brilliants  were  restored.     I  don't  know  what  supervened, 

*  He  ^/c/ reproduce  part  of  it  in  Punch. 


42  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

for  exhausted  nature  would  bear  no  more.  But  you  should 
have  seen  the  Court  of  St.  James',  the  beef-eaters,  the  Life 
Guards,  the  heralds  at  arms  in  their  tabards  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  the  ushers  announcing  the  great  folks,  as  they 
went  into  the  presence  of  the  great  sovereign.  Lady  Camp- 
bell, the  Countess  of  Derby,  and  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury were  announced.  O  !  such  an  archbishop  !  he  had  on 
a  velvet  trencher  cap,  and  a  dress  something  like  our  real 
and  venerated  prelates',  and  a  rich  curling  wig,  and  he 
stopped  and  blessed  the  people,  making  crucificial  signs 
on  the  stairs.  The  various  lords  went  into  the  chamber 
in  red  robes  and  long  flowing  wigs.  The  wonder  of  the 
parody  was,  that  it  was  so  like  and  yet  so  absurdly  un- 
like. O'Connell  appeared,  saluted  as  Daniel  by  the  Count 
of  Rio  Santo,  and  announcing  that  he  himself,  though  brisi 
par  la  lutte  with  the  oppressors  of  his  country,  yet  strongly 
reprobated  anything  like  violent  measures  on  the  part  of  M. 
de  Rio  Santo  and  his  fellow-patriots.  The  band  played 
"  God  safe  the  Quin  "  in  the  most  delightful  absurd  manner. 
The  best  of  it  is  that  these  things,  admirably  as  they  tickled 
me,  are  only  one  degree  more  absurd  than  what  they  pretend 
to  copy.  The  Archbishop  had  a  wig  only  the  other  day, 
though  not  quite  such  a  wig  as  this ;  the  chiefs  of  the  police 
came  in  with  oilskin  hats,  policemen's  coats  quite  correct,  and 
white  tights  and  silk  stockings,  which  made  me  laugh  so,  that 
the  people  in  the  stalls  next  me  didn't  know  what  I  was  at ! 
But  the  parody  was  in  fine  prodigious,  and  will  afford  matter 
to  no  end  of  penny-a-line  speculation.  ...  I  sit  in  my 
little  snug  room  and  say  God  bless  you  and  Mr.  Williams. 
Here  is  near  four  pages  of  Pendennis.     .     .     . 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


April,  loth.  1849. 
My  Dear  Persons. — After  lying  in  bed  until  you  had 
reached  Clifton,  exceeding  melancholy  from  want  of  sleep, 
(induced  by  no  romantic  inward  feeling  but  by  other  causes 
much  more  material  and  vulgar,  viz.,  late  smoking,  etc.,  pre- 
vious nights)  shall  I  tell  you  what  it  was  dissipated  my  blue 
devils  ?  As  I  was  going  toward  London  the  postman  stopped 
me  in  the  street  and  asked  me  if  I  would  take  my  letters, 
which  he  handed  to  me : — one  was  an  opera-box  which  I  sent 
off  to  Mrs.  M.  for  to  morrow ;  and  one  was  a  letter  from  an 
attorney  demanding  instantly  ^112  for  that  abominable  Irish 
Railway ;  and  in  presence  of  this  real  calamity  all  the  senti- 
mental ones  vanished  straight.  I  began  to  think  how  I  must 
raise  the  money, — how  I  must  go  to  work,  nor  be  shilly-shal- 
lying any  longer ;  and  with  this  real  care  staring  me  in  the 
face  I  began  to  forget  imaginary  grievances  and  to  think 
about  going  to  work  immediately ;  and  how  for  the  next  3 
months  I  must  screw  and  save  in  order  to  pay  off  the  money. 
And  this  is  the  way,  M'am,  that  the  grim  duties  of  the  world 
push  the  soft  feelings  aside  ;  we've  no  time  to  be  listening  to 
their  little  meek  petitions  and  tender  home  prattle  in  presence 
of  the  imperative  Duty  who  says  "Come,  come,  no  more  of 
this  here, — get  to  work.  Mister  " — and  so  we  go  and  join  the 
working  gang,  behind  which  Necessity  marches  cracking  his 
whip.  This  metaphor  has  not  been  worked  so  completely  as 
it  might  be,  but  it  means  that  I  am  resolved  to  go  to  work 
directly.  So  being  determined  on  this  I  went  off  at  once  to 
the  Star  and  Garter  at  Richmond  and  dined  with  those  2 
nice  women  and  their  husbands,  viz,  the  Strutts  and  Romillys. 
We  had  every  sort  of  luxury  for  dinner,  and  afterwards  talked 
about  Vanity  Fair  and  Pendennis  almost  incessantly  (though 
I  declare  I  led   away  the  conversation  at  least  10  times,  but 


44  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

they  would  come  back)  so  that  the  evening  was  uncommonly 
pleasant.  Once,  twice,  thrice,  it  came  into  my  head — I  won- 
der what  those  people  at  Clifton  are  doing;  I  would  give  2/6 
to  be  with  them ;  but  in  the  mean  while  it  must  be  confessed, 
the  Star  and  Garter  is  not  bad.  These  ladies  are  handsome 
and  good,  and  clever,  and  kind ;  that  solicitor  general  talks 
with  great  pleasantness ;  and  so  I  came  home  in  a  fly  with 
an  old  gentleman  who  knew  Sir  S.  Romilly,  and  we  talked 
of  the  dark  end  of  that  history  of  a  very  good  and  wise 
man,  and  how  he  adored  his  wife  (it  was  her  death  which 
caused  his  suicide),  and  how  his  son  was  equally  attached  to 
his  own,  of  whose  affection  for  her  husband  my  informer  gave 
many  pretty  instances.  This  conversation  brought  me  to 
Kensington,  where  after  thinking  about  the  ;^i  12  a  little,  and 
a  little  more  about  some  friends  of  mine  whom  I  pray  God  to 
make  happy,  I  fell  into  a  great  big  sleep — from  which  I  wake 
at  this  present  8  o'clock  in  the  morning  to  say  Bon  jour, 
Madame.  Where  do  you  think  this  is  wrote  from  ?  From 
an  attorney's  office,  Old  Jewry.  The  Lord  Mayor,  the  Sher- 
iffs, their  coaches  and  footmen,  in  gold  and  silk  stockings, 
have  just  passed  in  a  splendid  procession  through  the  mud 
and  pouring  rain.  I  have  been  to  the  bankers  to  see  how 
much  money  I  have  got.  I  have  got  ^120;  I  owe  £\\2\ 
from  ;^  1 20  take  ;^ii2,  leaves  8  for  the  rest  of  the  month. 
Isn't  that  pleasant  ?  Well,  but  I  know  how  to  raise  some  ; — 
the  bankers  say  I  may  over-draw.     Things  isn't  so  bad. 

But  now,  (this  is  from  the  Garrick  Club)  now  I  say  for 
the  wonderful  wonder  of  wonders.  There  is  a  chance  for  Mr. 
Williams  such  as  he  little  looked  for.  EMMA  is  free.  The 
great  Catastrophe  has  happened — last  night  she  and  her 
mother  fled  from  the  infamous  R.  and  took  refuge  at  Mrs. 
Procter's  where  they  had  Adelaide's  and  Agnes'  beds — who 
went  and  slept  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Goldsmid  next  door.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  P.  called  at  Kensington  at  1 1  o'clock  and  brought 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  45 

the  news.*  R.  had  treated  his  wife  infamously ;  R.  had  as- 
sailed her  with  the  most  brutal  language  and  outrages  ; — that 

innocent  woman  Madame  G ,  poor  thing,  who   meddled 

with  nothing  and  remained  all  day  in  her  own  garret  so  as  to 
give  no  trouble,  was  flung  out  of  the  house  by  him — indeed 
only  stayed  in  order  to  protect  her  daughter's  life.  The  brute 
refused  to  allow  the  famous  picture  to  be  exhibited — in  fact  is 
a  mad-man  and  a  ruffian.  Procter  and  I  went  off  to  make 
peace,  and  having  heard  R.'s  story,  I  believe  that  he  has  been 
more  wronged  than  they. 

The  mother  in-law  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  mischief.  It 
was  she  who  made  the  girl  marry  R.,  and,  the  marriage  made, 
she  declined  leaving  her  daughter ;  in  fact,  the  poor  devil, 
who  has  a  bad  temper,  a  foolish  head — an  immense  vanity — 
has  been  victimised  by  the  women  and  I  pity  him  a  great 
deal  more  than  them.  O  !  what  a  comedy  it  would  make  ! 
but  the  separation  I  suppose  is  final,  and  it  will  be  best  for 
both  parties.  It  will  end  no  doubt  in  his  having  to  pay  a  4th 
of  his  income  for  the  pleasure  of  being  a  month  married  to 
her,  and  she  will  be  an  angelic  martyr,  &c.  I  wonder  whether 
you  will  give  me  a  luncheon  on  Thursday.  I  might  stop  for 
2  hours  on  my  way  to  Taunton  and  make  you  my  hand-shake. 
This  would  be  very  nice.  I  thought  of  writing  to  Mrs.  Elton 
and  offering  myself,  but  I  should  like  first  to  have  the  ap- 
proval of  Mr.  Williams,  for  aftfer  all,  I  am  not  an  indifferent 
person  but  claim  to  rank  as  the  Afft.  brother  of  both  of  you. 

W.  M.  T. 

*Mrs.  Procter,  the  wife  of  the  well-known  poet,  Barry  Cornwall, — herself  a  most  accom- 
plished woman. — Even  now  at  84  years  of  age  she  retains  the  brilliant  powers  of  conversation 
for  which  she  was  always  celebrated.  She  was  always  a  faithful  friend  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  who 
had  a  sincere  regard  for  her.  Mrs.  Procter  was  the  mother  of  Adelaide,  who  so  largely  inher- 
ited her  father's  poetic  powers. 


46  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


Fragment. 


\Aprily  1849.] 

Yesterday's  wasn't  a  letter,  you  know,  ma'am ;  and  I  am 
so  tired  now  of  penmanship,  that  I  don't  think  I  shall  be  able 
to  get  through  one,  I  wish  you  were  on  the  sofa  in  Portman 
Street,  and  that  I  could  go  and  lie  down  on  the  opposite  one 
and  fall  asleep.  Isn't  that  a  polite  wish  ?  Well,  I  am  so  beat 
that  I  ought  to  go  to  bed,  and  not  inflict  my  yawns  upon 
anyone  ;  but  I  can't  begin  snoring  yet.  I  am  waiting  at  the 
Club,  till  the  printer's  boy  brings  the  proofs  of  No.  7,*  which  is 
all  done  ;  there  are  two  new  women  in  it,  not  like  anybody  that 
you  know  or  I  know  ;  your  favourite  Major  appears  rather  in  an 
amiable  light,  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  good  or  bad.  The 
latter  probably.     Well,  it  is  done,  that's  a  comfort. 

I  am  going  to  dine  with  Lady  Davy  again,  but  Friday 
shall  be  a  happy  Friday  for  me,  and  on  Saturday,  when  you 
go  to  Oxbridge,  I  shall  console  myself  by  a  grand  dinner  at 
the  Royal  Academy,  if  you  please,  to  which  they  have  invited 
me,  on  a  great  card  like  a  tea-tray.  That's  a  great  honour, 
none  but  bishops,  purchasers,  and  other  big-wigs  are  asked. 
I  daresay  I  shall  have  to  make  an  impromptu  speech.  Shall 
I  come  to  rehearse  it  to  you  on  Friday  ?  I  was  going  to  send 
you  a  letter  t'other  day  from  a  sculptor  who  wants  to  make 
my  bust ;   think  of  that !     .     .     . 

Here  is  wonderful  Spring  weather  come,  and  the  leaves 
are  sprouting  and  all  the  birds  chirping  melojoyously. 

I  daresay  you  are  driving  by  Severn's  Shore,  now ;  then 
you  will  listen  after  dinner  to  Captain  Budd  on  the  German 
flute  ;  then  I  daresay  you  will  sing,  after  a  great  deal  of  blush- 
ing and  hesitation.     Is  Mrs.  Tidy  jealous  of  you  ?     I  dare- 


*  Pendcnnis. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  47 

say  she  thinks  you  are  overrated,  and  wonders  what  people 
see  in  you.     So  do  I.     . 

Tomorrow  me  and  Annie  and  Minnie  are  going-  to  buy  a 
new  gowiid  for  Granny,  who  wants  it  very  much.  Those  old 
folks  project  a  tour  to  Switzerland  in  the  Summer,  did  I  tell 
you  ?  And  my  mother  cannot  part  with  the  children,  who 
must  go  too.     Where  shall  I  go  ?     . 

Here  comes  the  proof; — shall  I  send  this  letter  now  or 
wait  till  tomorrow,  and  have  something  to  say  ?  perhaps  I 
shall  see  William  tonight.  I  am  going  to  Lady  Lovelace's 
drum  in  Cumberland  Place,  hard-by  Portman  Street. 

No,  I  didn't  go,  but  came  home  and  fell  asleep  after  din- 
ner, from  nine  o'clock  till  now,  which  it  is  eight  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  which  I  am  writing  in  bed.  You  are  very  likely 
looking  at  the  elms  out  of  window  by  this  time  ;  are  they 
green  yet  ?  Our  medlar  tree  is.  I  was  to  have  gone  to  the 
old  Miss  Berrys'  too  last  night ;  they  were  delighted  at  the 
allusion  in  Ptuich  to  them,  in  the  same  number  in  which  you 
appear  mending  waistcoats.  But  Lord  what  a  much  better 
thing  going  to  bed  was  !  and  No.  7  completed  with  great 
throes  and  disquiet,  only  yesterday — seems  to  me  ever  so 
long  ago — such  a  big  sleep  have  I  had  !     .     .     . 

Adelaide  Procter  would  hardly  shake  hands  with  me  be- 
cause of  my  cowardly  conduct  in  the  R affair,  and  she 

told  me  that  I  hadn't  been  to  call  there  since  the  28th  March 
last.    They  keep  a  journal  of  visitors  ;  fancy  that !     I  heard 

the  R story  from  the  G herself  and  the  mother,  and 

can  only  make  out  now  that  the  husband  is  mad  and  odious. 
What  they  are  to  do  is  the  difficulty ;  he  refuses  to  allow  her 
a  shilling ;  her  picture  has  been  rejected  at  the  Academy, 
and  why  I  can't  see,  for  there's  no  English  academician's  who 
could  equal  it,  and  she  must  paint  to  live.  I  shall  give  her 
my  mother  to   do,  I  think.     She  looked  exceedingly  hand- 


48  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

some  and  interesting  the  other  day ;  pale  and  grief-stricken, 
with  her  enormous  hair  twirled  round  her  head — and  yet,  and 
yet !  Will  you  kiss  those  little  maids  for  me,  I  should  like  to 
hear  their  prattle  through  the  door.  I  am  going  to  kill  Mrs. 
Pendennis  presently,  and  have  her  ill  in  this  number.  Minnie 
says,  "  O  !  papa,  do  make  her  well  again  ;  she  can  have  a 
regular  doctor  and  be  almost  dead,  and  then  will  come  a 
homeopathic  physician  who  will  make  her  well  you  know." 
It  is  very  pretty  to  see  her  with  her  grandmother.  Let  us 
jump  up  now  and  go  to  breakfast  with  the  children. 


June  12,  1849. 

My  dear  Lady  : 

I  send  a  hasty  line  to  say  that  the  good  old  aunt  is  still 
here,  and  was  very  glad  to  see  me  and  another  nephew  of 
hers  who  came  by  the  same  train.  It's  a  great  comfort  to  my 
mother  and  to  her,  that  my  mother  should  be  with  her  at 
this  last  day ;  and  she  is  preparing  to  go  out  of  the  world, 
in  which  she  has  been  living  very  virtuously  for  more  than 
eighty  years,  as  calmly  and  happily  as  may  be.  I  don't  know 
how  long  she  may  remain,  but  my  duty  will  be  to  stay  on  I 
suppose,  until  the  end,  which  the  doctor  says  is  very  near ; 
though  to  see  her  in  her  bed,  cheerful  and  talking,  one  would 
fancy  that  her  summons  is  not  so  near  as  those  who  are  about 
her  imagine.  So  I  shall  not  see  London  or  my  dear  friends 
in  it  for  a  few  days  very  likely.  Meanwhile  will  you  write  me 
a  line  here  to  tell  me  that  you  are  easier  of  your  pains,  and 
just  to  give  a  comfort  to  your  old  brother  Makepeace. 

I  suppose  I  shall  do  a  great  deal  of  my  month's  work  here. 
I  have  got  a  comfortable  room  at  a  little  snug  country  inn, 
such  as  William  would  like.  I  am  always  thinking  about  go- 
ing to  see  Mrs.  Fanshawe  at  Southampton,  about  No.  9  of 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  49 

Pendennis,  and  about  all  sorts  of  things.  I  went  to  see  Mrs. 
Procter,  to  the  City,  and  to  do  my  business  and  pay  my  hor- 
rid railroad  money.  The  banker's  clerk  stopped  me  and  said, 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,  but  will  you,  if  you  please,  tell  me 
the  meaning  of  '  eesthetics,' "  which  I  was  very  much  puzzled 
to  tell — and  here  comes  the  boy  to  say  that  the  note  must  go 
this  instant  to  save  the  post,  and  so  God  bless  Jane  my  sister 
and  William  my  brother. 

Written  from  the  Royal  oak,  Fareham. 


From  the  old  shop,  21. 
[1849] 

Is  it  pouring  with  rain  at  Park  Lodge,  and  the  most  dis- 
mal, wretched,  cat  and  dog  day  ever  seen  ?  O  !  it's  gloomy 
at  13  Young  Street !  I  have  been  labouring  all  day — draw- 
ing that  is,  and  doing  my  plates,  till  my  &s  are  ready  to  drop 
off  for  weariness.  But  they  must  not  stop  for  yet  a  little 
while,  and  until  I  have  said  how  do  you  do  to  my  dear  lady 
and  the  young  folks  at  Southampton.  I  hardly  had  time  to 
know  I  was  gone,  and  that  happy  fortnight  was  over,  till  this 
morning.     At  the  train,  whom  do  you  think  I  found?     Miss 

G who  says  she  is  Blanche  Amory,  and  I  think  she  is 

Blanche  Amory ;  amiable  at  times,  amusing,  clever  and  de- 
praved. We  talked  and  persiflated  all  the  way  to  London, 
and  the  idea  of  her  will  help  me  to  a  good  chapter,  in  which 
I  will  make  Pendennis  and  Blanche  play  at  being  in  love, 
such  a  wicked  false  humbugging  London  love,  as  two  blase 
London  people  might  act,  and  half  deceive  themselves  that 
they  were  in  earnest.  That  will  complete  the  cycle  of  Mr. 
Pen's  worldly  experiences,  and  then  we  will  make,  or  try  and 
make,  a  good  man  of  him.  O  !  me,  we  are  wicked  world- 
lings most  of  us,  may  God  better  us  and  cleanse  us  ! 

4 


50  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

I  wonder  whether  ever  again,  I  shall  have  such  a  happy 
peaceful  fortnight  as  that  last !  How  sunshiny  the  landscape 
remains  in  my  mind,  I  hope  for  always ;  and  the  smiles  of 
dear  children.  ...  I  can  hardly  see  as  I  write  for  the 
eye-water,  but  it  isn't  with  grief,  but  for  the  natural  pathos  of 
the  thing.  How  happy  your  dear  regard  makes  me,  how  it 
takes  off  the  solitude  and  eases  it ;  may  it  continue,  pray 
God,  till  your  head  is  white  as  mine,  and  our  children  have 
children  of  their  own.  Instead  of  being  unhappy  because 
that  delightful  holiday  is  over  or  all  but  over,  I  intend  that 
the  thoughts  of  it  should  serve  to  make  me  only  the  more 
cheerful  and  help  me,  please  God,  to  do  my  duty  better.  All 
such  pleasures  ought  to  brace  and  strengthen  one  against 
work  days,  and  lo,  here  they  are.  I  hope  you  will  be  im- 
mensely punctual  at  breakfast  and  dinner,  and  do  all  your 
business  of  life  with  cheerfulness  and  briskness,  after  the  ex- 
ample of  holy  Philip  Neri,  whom  you  wot  of;  that  is  your 
duty  Madame,  and  mine  is  to  "  pursue  my  high  calling ;  " 
and  so  I  go  back  to  it  with  a  full  grateful  heart,  and  say  God 
bless  all.  If  it  hadn't  been  pouring-o'-rain  so,  I  think  I  should 
have  gone  off  to  His  Reverence  at  Brighton ;  so  I  send  him 
my  very  best  regards,  and  a  whole  box  full  of  kisses  to  the 
children.     Farewell. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY,  51 


i>  Yti*-j  \\  \u-wjn-. .  ^*-.r^Ay .  \tKy 


Note  from  Thackeray  (actual  sizej. 


[7"<9  Mr.  Brookfield.l 

25  April  1849. 

My  dear  Vieux  : 

Will  ye  dine  with  me  on  Friday  at  the  G  ?  My  work  will 
be  just  over  on  that  day,  and  bedad,  we'll  make  a  night  of  it, 
and  go  to  the  play.  On  Thursday  I  shall  dine  here  and  Sun- 
day most  probbly,  and  shall  we  go  to  Richmond  on  Sunday  ? 
Make  your  game  and  send  me  word. 

Ever  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 

P.  S.  Having  occasion  to  write  to  a  man  in  Bloomsbury 
Place,  and  to  Lady  Davy,  I  mixed  up  the  addresses  and  am 
too  mean  to  throw  away  the  envelope,  so  give  you  the  ben- 
efit of  the  same. 


52  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 


[1849.] 

Monday. 

My  letter  to-day,  dear  lady,  must  needs  be  a  very  short 
one,  for  the  post  goes  in  half  an  hour,  and  I've  been  occupied 
all  day  with  my  own  business  and  other  people's.  At  three 
o'clock,  just  as  I  was  in  full  work  comes  a  letter  from  a  pto- 
tegde  of  my  mother's,  a  certain  Madame  de  B.  informing  me 
that  she,  Madame  de  B.,  had  it  in  view  to  commit  suicide  im- 
mediately, unless  she  could  be  in  some  measure  relieved  (or 
releived,  which  is  it?)  from  her  present  difficulties.  So  I 
have  had  to  post  off  to  this  Madame  de  B.,  whom  I  expected 
to  find  starving,  and  instead  met  a  woman  a  great  deal  fatter 
than  the  most  full-fed  person  need  be,  and  having  just  had  a 
good  dinner ;  but  that  didn't  prevent  her,  the  confounded  old 
fiend,  from  abusing  the  woman  who  fed  her  and  was  good  to 
her,  from  spoiling  the  half  of  a  day's  work  for  me,  and  taking 
me  of  a  fool's  errand.  I  was  quite  angry,  instead  of  a  corpse 
perhaps,  to  find  a  fat  and  voluble  person  who  had  no  more 
idea  of  hanging  herself  to  the  bed-post  than  you  or  I  have. 
However,  I  got  a  character  in  making  Madame  de  B's  ac- 
quaintance, and  some  day  she  will  turn  up  in  that  inevitable 
repertory  of  all  one's  thoughts  and  experiences  qtie  votes 
savez. 

Thence,  as  it  was  near,  I  went  to  see  a  sick  poetess,  who 

is  pining  away  for  love  of  S M ,  that  you  have  heard 

of,  and  who  literally  has  been  brought  near  to  the  grave 
by  that  amorous  malady.  She  is  very  interesting  somehow, 
ghastly  pale  and  thin,  recumbent  on  a  sofa,  and  speaking 
scarcely  above  her  breath.  I  wonder  though  after  all,  was  it 
the  love,  or  was  it  the  bronchitis,  or  was  it  the  chest  or  the 
spine  that  was  affected  ?  All  I  know  is  that  Don  Saville  may 
have  made  love  to  her  once,  but  has  tried  his  hand  in  other 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  53 

quarters  since,  and  you  know  one  doesn't  think  the  worse  of 
a  man  of  honour  for  cheating  in  affairs  of  the  heart.  The 
numbers  that  I  myself  have — fiddledee,  this  is  nonsense. 

The  Reform  banquet  was  very  splendid  and  dull  enough. 
A  bad  dinner  and  bad  wine,  and  pretty  fair  speaking ;  my 
friend  fat  James  being  among  not  the  least  best  of  the  speak- 
ers. They  all  speak  in  a  kind  of  sing-song  or  chant,  without 
which  I  suppose  it  is  impossible  for  the  orator  nowadays  to 
pitch  his  sentences,  and  Madam,  you  are  aware  that  the  Ro- 
mans had  a  pipe  when  they  spoke ;  not  a  pipe  such  as  your 
husband  uses,  but  a  pitch-pipe.  I  wanted  to  have  gone  to 
smoke  a  last  calumet  at  poor  dear  old  Portman  Street,  but 
our  speechifiers  did  not  stop  till  12.30  and  not  then  ;  but  the 
best  of  them  had  fired  off  by  that  time  and  I  came  off.  Yes- 
terday, after  devoting  the  morning  to  composition,  I  went 
and  called  on  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield,  whom  I  found  very 
busy  packing  up  and  wishing  me  at  Jericho,  so  I  went  to  the 
Miss  Leslies'  and  Captn.  Morgan,  the  American  Captain  ; 
and  then  to  dine  at  Hampstead,  where  the  good  natured 
folks  took  in  me  and  the  two  young  ones.  Finally,  in  the 
evening  to  Lady  Tennent's,  where  I  have  been  most  remiss 
in  visit-paying,  for  I  like  her,  and  she  was  a  kind  old  friend 
to  me.  To-day  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the  Dowager  Duch- 
ess of  Bedford,  afterwards  to  Mrs.  Procter's,  afterwards  to 
Lady  Granville's.  Here  you  have  your  humble  servant's 
journal,  and  you  see  his  time  is  pretty  well  occupied.  I  have 
had  a  good  deal  of  the  children  too,  and  am  getting  on  apace 
with  my  number,  though  I  don't  like  it.  Shall  I  send  you 
some  of  it?  No,  I  won't,  though  if  I  do  a  very  good  piece 
indeed,  perhaps  I  may.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Brighton  ;  I 
think  you  will  be  away  six  weeks  at  least ;  and  I  hope  to 
hear  that  my  dear  lady  is  well  and  that  she  remembers  her 
affectionate  old  friend 

Makepeace. 


54  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


1849. 

\To  Mr.  Brookfield'] 
My  dear  Vieux  : 

A  long  walk  and  stroll  in  Richmond  Park  yesterday,  a 
blue  followed  by  a  black  this  morning,  have  left  me  calmer, 
exhausted,  but  melancholy.  I  shall  dine  at  the  Garrick  at 
seven  o'clock  or  so,  and  go  to  the  Lyceum  afterwards. 
Come  into  town  if  you  get  this  in  time  and  let  us  go.     .     .     . 

Get  David  Copperjield,  by  Jingo  it's  beautiful ;  it  beats 
the  yellow  chap  of  this  month  hollow. 

W.  M.  T. 

Will  you  send  me  two  cigars  per  bearer  ?  I  am  working 
with  three  pipe-smoking  Frenchmen,  and  I  can't  smoke  their 
abominations,  and  I  hope  Madame  is  pretty  well  after  her 
triumphant  d^but  last  night. 


[1849] 

Reform  Club,  Tuesday — 

My  dear  Lady  : 

I  write  only  a  word  and  in  the  greatest  hurry  to  say  I  am 
very  well  in  health.  I've  been  at  work,  and  have  written 
somewhat  and  done  my  two  plates,  which  only  took  two 
hours ;  and  now  that  they're  done,  I  feel  that  I  want  so  to 
come  back  to  Ryde,  I  must  get  a  rope  or  a  chain  to  bind  my- 
self down  to  my  desk  here.*  All  the  world  is  out  of  town — 
Mrs.  Procter   not  at  home,  perhaps  to  my  visit, — dear  kind 

*  Mr.  Thackeray  had  been  spending  a  few  days  at  Ryde  with  my  brother  and  his  wife, 
where  I  was  staying. 


SKETCH    OF    MRS.    BROOKFIELD. 
[From  a   collection  of  Thackeray's  drawings  privately  printed  foi    Sir  Arthur  Elton.] 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  55 

Kate  Perry  whom  indeed  I  like  with  all  my  heart  just  pack- 
ing up  to  go  to  Brighton.  My  Chesterfield  loves  flown  away 
to  Tunbridge  Wells,  and  so  I  am  alone  and  miss  you.  I  sent 
your  package  off  to  Harry  this  morning.  The  lucky  rogue  ! 
I  suppose  he  will  see  Madam  and  all  those  kind  Ryde  folks. 
Tell  them  if  you  please  how  very  grateful  I  am  to  them  for 
their  goodnature.  I  can't  help  fancying  them  relations  rather 
than  friends. 

I  got  some  dinner ;  at  10^  o'clock  I  drank  to  the  health 
of  Madame  Ma  bonne  soeur  ; — I  hadn't  the  courage  to  go 
home  till  past  midnight,  when  all  the  servants  got  out  of  bed 
to  let  me  in.  There  was  such  a  heap  of  letters  !  I  send  you 
a  couple  which  may  amuse  you.  Send  me  Colonel  Fergu- 
son's back,  as  I  must  answer  him  ;  but  I  don't  think  I  shall 
be  able  to  get  away  in  August  to  Scotland.  Who  can  the 
excoriated  female  be  who  imparts  her  anguish  to  me  ?  what 
raw  wound  has  the  whip  of  the  satirist  been  touching  ?  As  I 
was  sitting  with  my  Frenchmen  at  3  o'clock,  I  thought  to 
myself  O  Lor !  Mr.  Makepeace,  how  much  better  you  were 
off  yesterday  ! 

Good  bye  dear  lady,  God  bless  every  kind  person  of  all 
those  who  love  you. — I  feel  here,  you  must  know,  just  as  I 
used  five  and  twenty  years  ago  at  school,  the  day  after  com- 
ing back  from  the  holidays.  If  you  have  nothing  to  say  to 
me,  pray  write ;  if  you  have  something,  of  course  you  will. 
Good  bye,  shake  hands,  I  am  always  my  dear  lady's  sincere 

W.  M.  T. 


56  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


[1849] 

Last  night  was  a  dinner  at  Spencer  Cowper's,  the  man 
who  used  to  be  called  the  fortunate  youth  some  few  years 
back,  when  ^10,000,  or  perhaps  ^20,000  a  year,  was  sud- 
denly left  him  by  a  distant  relative,  and  when  he  was  without 
a  guinea  in  the  world.  It  was  a  Sybaritic  repast,  in  a  mag- 
nificent apartment,  and  we  were  all  of  us  young  voluptuaries 
of  fashion.  There  were  portraits  of  Louis  Quatorze  ladies 
round  the  room  (I  was  going  to  say  salle  a  manger,  but  room 
after  all  is  as  good  a  word).  We  sat  in  the  comfortablest 
arm  chairs,  and  valets  went  round  every  instant  filling  our 
glasses  with  the  most  exquisite  liquors.  The  glasses  were 
as  big  as  at  Kinglake's  dinner — do  you  remember  Kinglake's 
feast.  Ma'am  ?  Then  we  adjourned  into  wadded  drawing 
rooms,  all  over  sofas  and  lighted  with  a  hundred  candles, 
where  smoking  was  practised,  and  we  enjoyed  a  pleasant  and 
lively  conversation,  carried  on  in  the  2  languages  of  which 
we  young  dogs  are  perfect  masters.  As  I  came  away  at  mid- 
night I  saw  C.'s  carriage  lamps  blazing  in  the  courtyard,  keep- 
ing watch  until  the  fortunate  youth  should  come  out  to  pay  a 
visit  to  some  Becky  no  doubt.  The  young  men  were  clever, 
very  frank  and  gentlemenlike ;  one,  rather  well-read ;  quite 
as  pleasant  companions  as  one  deserves  to  meet,  and  as  for 
your  humble  servant,  he  saw  a  chapter  or  two  of  Pendennis 
in  some  of  them, 

I  am  going  with  M.  to-day,  to  see  Alexis  the  sonnambu- 
list.  She  came  yesterday  evening  and  talked  to  me  for  two 
hours  before  dinner.  I  astonished  her  by  finding  out  her 
secrets  by  some  of  those  hits  que  vous  savez — Look,  here  is 
a  bit  of  paper  with  a  note  to  her  actually  commenced  in  reply 
to  my  dearest  William, — but  I  couldn't  get  out  my  dearest  M. 
in  return,  and  stopped  at  "  My  " — .     But  I  like  her  better 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  57 

than  I  did, — and  begin  to  make  allowances  for  a  woman  of 
great  talents  married  to  a  stupid,  generous,  obstinate,  devoted 
heavy  dragoon,  thirty  years  her  senior.  My  dear  old  mother 
with  her  imperial  manner  tried  to  take  the  command  of  both 
of  them,  and  was  always  anxious  to  make  them  understand 
that  I  was  the  divinest  creature  in  the  world,  whose  shoe- 
strings neither  of  them  was  fit  to  tie.  Hence  bickerings,  ha- 
treds, secret  jealousies  and  open  revolt,  and  I  can  fancy  them 
both  worked  up  to  a  pitch  of  hatred  of  me,  that  my  success 
in  life  must  have  rendered  only  more  bitter. 

But  about  Alexis — this  wonder  of  wonders  reads  letters 
and  tells  you  their  contents  and  the  names  of  their  authors 
without  even  thinking  of  opening  the  seal;  and  I  want  you 
very  much,  if  you  please,  and  instantly  on  receipt  of  this  to 
send  me  a  bit  of  your  hair  that  I  may  have  a  consultation  on 
it.  Mind  you,  I  don't  want  it  for  myself;  I  pledge  you  my 
word  I'll  burn  it,  or  give  you  back  every  single  hair, 
but  do  if  you  please,  mum,  gratify  my  curiosity  in  this  matter 
and  consult  the  soothsayer  regarding  you.  M.  showed  him 
letters,  and  vows  he  is  right  in  every  particular.  And  as  I 
sha'n't  be  very  long  here  I  propose  by  return  of  post,  for  this 
favour. 

Are  you  going  to  dine  at  Lansdowne  House  on  Saturday? 
The  post  is  come  in  and  brought  me  an  invitation,  and  a  let- 
ter from  my  Ma,  and  my  daughters,  but  none  from  my  sister. 
Are  you  ill  again,  dear  lady  ?  Don't  be  ill,  God  bless  you — 
good  bye.  I  shall  write  again  if  you  please,  but  I  sha'n't  be 
long  before  I  come.  Don't  be  ill,  I  am  afraid  you  are.  You 
hav'n't  been  to  Kensington.  My  love  to  Mr.  Williams,  fare- 
well, and  write  tomorrow. 


58  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


1849. 

\To  Mr.  Bwokfield'] 

My  dear  Vieux: 

If  you  come  home  in  any  decent  time  I  wish  you  would 
go  off  to  poor  Mrs.  Crowe  at  Hampstead.*  A  letter  has  just 
come,  from  Eugenie,  who  describes  the  poor  lady  as  low, 
wretched,  and  hysterical — she  may  drop.  Now  a  word  or 
two  of  kindness  from  a  black  coat  might  make  all  the  differ- 
ence to  her,  and  whoso  able  to  administer  as  your  reverence  ? 
I  am  going  out  myself  to  laugh,  talk  and  to  the  best  of  my 
ability,  soothe  and  cheer  her  ;  but  the  professional  man  is 
the  best,  depend  upon  it,  and  I  wish  you  would  stretch  a 
point  in  order  to  see  her. 

Yours  till  this  evening. 


[1849] 
[To  Mr.  Brookfield'] 

My  dear  Vieux  : 

I  wish  you  would  go  and  call  upon  Lady  Ashburton. 
Twice  Ashburton  has  told  me  that  she  wants  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  and  twice  remarked  that  it  would  be  but  an  act 
of  politeness  in  you  to  call  on  a  lady  in  distress,  who  wants 
your  services.  Both  times  I  have  said  that  you  are  uncom- 
monly proud  and  shy,  and  last  night  told  him  he  had  best  call 
on  you,  which  he  said  he  should  hasten  to  do.  But  surely 
you  might  stretch  a  leg  over  the  barrier  when  there's  a  lady 
actually  beckoning  to  you  to  come  over,  and  such  an  uncom- 

*  Mrs.  Crowe,  mother  of  Eyre  Crowe,  the  well-known  artist,  who  went  with  Mr.  Thackeray 
to  America  on  his  first  tour  there,  and  who  was  always  one  of  his  most  faithful  friends. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  59 

monly  good  dinner  laid  on  the  other  side.  There  was  a  va- 
cant place  yesterday,  as  you  might  have  had,  and  such  a 
company  of  jolly  dogs,  St.  Davids,  Hallam  sen'r  and  ever  so 
many  more  of  our  set.  Do  come  if  you  can,  and  believe  me 
to  be  yours, 

A.  Pendennis,  Major  H.P. 


To  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Brookfield. 

Monday. 
My  dear  Vieux  : 

A.  Sterling  *  dines  with  me  at  the  Garrick  at  seven  on 
Friday  ;  I  hope  you  will  come  too.  And  on  Friday  the  21st. 
June,  Mr.  Thackeray  requests  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brookfield's  and  Mr.  Henry  Hallam's  company  at  dinner  at 
7.30  to  meet  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  Sir 
Henry  and  Lady  De  Bathe  &c.  &c.  I  hope  you  will  both 
come  to  this,  please  ;  you  ought  to  acknowledge  the  kind- 
ness of  the  key,t  and  those  kind  Gordons  will  like  to  see 
you. 

About  1849. 

My  dear  lady: 

A  note  comes  askino-  me  to  dine  tomorrow  with  Mr.  Ben- 
edictX  close  by  you  at  No.  2  Manchester  Square,  to  meet 
Mdme  Jenny  Lind.  I  reply  that  a  lady  is  coming  to  dine 
with  my  mother,  whom  I  must  of  course  meet,  but  that  I  hope 
Mrs.  B.  will  allow  me  to  come  to  her  in  the  evening  with  my 
mamma  and  this  lady  under  each  arm,  and  I  promise  they  will 

•  A.  Sterling,  brother  to  John  Sterling  of  whom  Carlyle  wrote  the  life, 
t  The  key  of  the  Portman  Square  Garden  which  was  kindly  lent  to  me. 
X  Mr.  Benedict,  the  late  lamented  and  kindly  musician,  Sir  Julius  Benedict. 


6o  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

look  and  behave  well.  Now  suppose  Mrs.  S.  and  I  were  to 
come  and  dine  with  you,  or  my  mother  alone,  if  you  liked  to 
have  her  better  ;  yes,  that  would  be  best,  and  I  could  come 
at  nine  o'clock  and  accompany  you  to  the  Swedish  nightin- 
gale. 

I  am  as  usual 

Your  obedient  servant 

Clarence  Bulbul. 


[1849] 

My  dear  lady  : 

It  was  begun,  "dear  Sir,"  to  somebody  of  the  other  sex. 
I  think  it  is  just  possible,  that  Mr.  William  on  returning  to- 
day, may  like  to  have  his  wife  to  himself,  and  that  the  ap- 
pearance of  my  eternal  countenance  might  be  a  bore,  hence 
I  stay  away. 

And  about  tomorrow,  the  birthday  of  my  now  motherless 
daughter.  Miss  Annie.  Will  you  come  out, — being  as  I  must 
consider  you,  if  you  please,  the  children's  aunt, — at  two,  or 
three  o'clk,  or  so,  and  take  innocent  pleasures  with  them, 
such  as  the  Coliseum  and  the  Zoological  Gardens  ?  and  are 
you  free  so  as  to  give  them  some  dinner  or  tea  in  the  even- 
ing? I  dine  out  myself  at  8  o'clock,  and  should  like  them  to 
share  innocent  pleasures  with  their  relation. 

My  mother  writes  from  Fareham  that  the  old  great  aunt 
is  better,  and  will  not  depart  probably  yet  awhile. 

And  now  concerning  Monday.  You  two  must  please  re- 
member that  you  are  engaged  to  this  house  at  seven.  I 
have  written  to  remind  the  Scotts,  to  ask  the  Pollocks,  and 
the  Carlyles  are  coming. 

And  now  with  regard  to  this  evening,  I  dine  in  West- 
bourne  Terrace,  then  I  must  go  to  Marshall's  in  Eaton  Square 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  6 1 

and  then  to  Mrs.  Sartoris,  where  I  don't  expect  to  see  you ; 
but  if  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  W.  H.  B.  should  have  a 
mind  to  come,  we  might  &c.  &c. 

Madam,  I  hope  you  have  had  a  pleasant  walk  on  Clap- 
ham's  breezy  common,  and  that  you  are  pretty  well.  I  myself 
was  very  quiet,  went  with  the  children  to  Hampstead,  and 
then  to  the  Opera,  and  only  one  party.  I  am  writing  at  the 
Reform  Club,  until  four  o'clock,  when  I  have  an  engagement 
with  O  !  such  a  charming  person,  and  tcte-a-tcte  too.  Well, 
it's  with  the  dentist's  arm  chair,  but  I  should  like  to  have  the 
above  queries  satisfactorily  answered,  and  am  always  Ma- 
dam's 

W.  M.  T. 


13  July  1849 

From  Brighton. 

Now  for  to  go  to  begin  that  long  letter  which  I  have 
a  right  to  send  you,  after  keeping  silence,  or  the  next 
thing  to  silence,  for  a  whole  week.  As  I  have  nothing  to 
tell  about,  it  is  the  more  likely  to  be  longer  and  funnier — 
no,  not  funnier,  for  I  believe  I  am  generally  most  funny 
when  I  am  most  melancholy, — and  who  can  be  melancholy 
with  such  air,  ocean  and  sunshine  ?  not  if  I  were  going  to 
be  hanged  tomorrow  could  I  afford  to  be  anything  but  ex- 
ceedingly lazy,  hungry  and  comfortable.  Why  is  a  day's 
Brighton  the  best  of  doctors  ?  I  don't  mean  this  for  a  riddle, 
but  I  got  up  hungry,  and  have  been  yawning  in  the  sun  like 
a  fat  lazzarone,  with  great  happiness  all  day.  I  have  got  a 
window  with  a  magnificent  prospect,  a  fresh  sea  breeze  blow- 
ing in,  such  a  blue  sea  yonder  as  can  scarcely  be  beat  by  the; 
Naples  or  the  Mediterranean  blue ;  and  have  passed  the 
main  part  of  the  morning  reading  O  !  such  a  stupid  book,. 


62  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

Fanny  Hervey,  the  new  intime  novel  of  the  season,  as  good 
as  Miss  Austen's  people  say.  In  two  hours  I  am  engaged 
to  dinner  in  London.  Well,  I  have  broken  with  that  place 
thank  Heaven,  for  a  little,  and  shall  only  go  back  to  do  my 
plates  and  to  come  away.  Whither  to  go  ?  I  have  a  fancy 
that  Ryde  in  the  Isle  of  Wight  would  be  as  nice  a  place  as 
any  for  idling,  for  sketching,  for  dawdling,  and  getting  health  ; 
but  the  Rev.  Mr.  Brookfield  must  determine  this  for  me,  and 
I  look  to  see  him  here  in  a  day  or  two. 

I  wish  they  had  called  me  sooner  to  dinner; 
there's  only  one  man  staying  at  this  house,  and  he  asked  me 
at  breakfast  in  a  piteous  tone,  to  let  him  dine  with  me.  If 
we  were  two,  he  said,  the  rules  of  the  club  would  allow  us  a 
joint, — as  if  this  luxury  would  tempt  the  voluptuary  who  pens 
these  lines.  He  has  come  down  here  suffering  from  indiges- 
tion, and  with  a  fatal  dying  look,  which  I  have  seen  in  one 
or  two  people  before ;  he  rushed  wildly  upon  the  joint  and 
devoured  it  with  famished  eagerness.  He  said  he  had  been 
curate  of  St.  James,  Westminster, — whereupon  I  asked  if  he 
knew  my  friend  Brookfield.  "My  successor,"  says  he,  "a 
very  able  man,  very  good  fellow,  married  a  very  nice  woman." 
Upon  my  word  he  said  all  this,  and  of  course  it  was  not  my 
business  to  contradict  him.  He  said,  no,  he  didn't  say,  but 
the  waiter  said,  without  my  asking,  that  his  name  was  Mr. 
Palmer  ;  and  then  he  asked  if  Brookfield  had  any  children, 
so  I  said  I  believed  not,  and  began  to  ask  about  his  own  chil- 
dren. How  queer  it  seemed  to  be  talking  in  this  way,  and 
what  2|d  incidents  to  tell ;  but  there  are  no  others  ;  nobody 
is  here.  The  paper  this  morning  announced  the  death  of 
dear  old  Horace  Smith,*  that  good  serene  old  man,  who 
went  out  of  the  world  in  charity  with  all  in  it,  and  having 


*  Horace  Smith  and  his  brother  were  the  authors  of  "  Rejected  Addresses."  The  two 
Miss  Horace  Smiths  are  still  living  at  Brighton,  where  Mr.  Thackeray  speaks  of  meeting  them 
after  his  illness.     Their  society  is  still  much  sought  after. 


%^'^'f 


IN    THE    NURSERY    AT    CLEVEDON    COURT 
[From   tho    Clevedon    Drawings] 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  63 

shown  through  his  Hfe,  as  far  as  I  knew  it,  quite  a  deHghtful 
love  of  God's  works  and  creatures, — a  true,  loyal.  Christian 
man.  So  was  Morier,  of  a  different  order,  but  possessing 
that  precious  natural  quality  of  love,  which  is  awarded  to 
some  lucky  minds  such  as  these,  Charles  Lambs,  and  one  or 
two  more  in  our  trade ;  to  many  amongst  the  parsons  I 
think ;  to  a  friend  of  yours  by  the  name  of  Makepeace,  per- 
haps, but  not  unalloyed  to  this  one.  O  !  God  purify  it,  and 
make  my  heart  clean.  After  dinner  and  a  drive  on  the  sea 
shore,  I  came  home  to  an  evening's  reading  which  took 
place  as  follows — 


<^^^  '  '''  ^<nL  \mkJ^  Ifr  .  AuX  XujJU  Uo^  [icM^duuAr  -     cM^  Ixmm<  Ox^O^ 

v  -!^'I.J^tj/i^'  i'T^I  ^*^  ^^'^^  '^"^^^^  *^ 

ii.iMj' .  I  (K.  <t  iudxU.  \Z  J^^i^Au'Xi,  <u<4  venule  U  uJ^  I  JluJt  (iTutr  t^ 


It  is  always  so  with  my  good  intentions,  and  I  woke 
about  dawn,  and  found  it  was  quite  time  to  go  to  bed.  But 
the  solitude  and  idleness  I  think  is  both  cheerful  and  whole- 
some. I've  a  mind  to  stay  on  here,  and  begin  to  hope  I 
shall  write  a  stronger  number  of  Pendennis  than  some  of  the 
last  ones  have  been.  The  Clevedon  plan  was  abandoned 
before  I  came  away ;   some  place  in  S.  Wales,  I  forget  what, 


64  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

was  fixed  upon  by  the  old  folks.  I  would  go  with  them,  but 
one  has  neither  the  advantage  of  society  nor  of  being  alone, 
and  it  is  best  to  follow  my  own  ways.  What  a  flood  of  ego- 
tism is  being  poured  out  on  you  !  Well,  I  do  think  of  some 
other  people  in  the  world  besides  myself. 


1849. 

Brighton,  Saturday — Monday. 

Thank  you  for  your  letter,  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield ;  it  made 
this  gay  place  look  twice  as  gay  yesterday  when  I  got  it. 
Last  night  when  I  had  come  home  to  work,  two  men  spied 
a  light  in  my  room,  and  came  in  and  began  smoking.  They 
talked  about  racing  and  the  odds  all  the  time.  One  of  them 
I  am  happy  to  say  is  a  lord,  and  the  other  a  Brighton  buck. 
When  they  were  gone  (and  indeed  I  listened  to  them  with  a 
great  deal  of  pleasure  for  I  like  to  hear  people  of  all  sorts,) 
at  mid-night,  and  in  the  quiet  I  read  your  letter  over  again, 
and  one  from  Miss  Annie,  and  from  my  dear  old  mother, 
who  is  to  come  on  the  12th.  and  whose  heart  is  yearning 
for  her  children.  I  must  be  at  home  to  receive  her,  and  some 
days,  ten  or  so  at  least,  to  make  her  comfortable,  so  with 
many  thanks  for  Mrs.  Elton's  invitation,  I  must  decline  it  for 
the  present  if  you  please.  You  may  be  sure  I  went  the  very 
first  thing  to  Virginia  and  her  sisters,  who  were  very  kind  to 
me,  and  I  think  are  very  fond  of  me,  and  their  talk  and 
beauty  consoled  me,  for  my  heart  was  very  sore  and  I  was 
ill  and  out  of  spirits.  A  change,  a  fine  air,  a  wonderful  sun- 
shine and  moonlight,  and  a  great  Spectacle  of  happy  people 
perpetually  rolling  by,  has  done  me  all  the  good  in  the  world, 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  65 

and  then  one  of  the  Miss  Smiths  *  told  me  a  story  which  is 
the  very  thing  for  the  beginning  of  Pendennis,  which  is  actu- 
ally begun  and  in  progress.  This  is  a  comical  beginning 
rather.  The  other,  which  I  didn't  like  was  sentimental,  and 
will  yet  come  in  very  well  after  the  startling  comical  business 
has  been  played  off.  See  how  beautifully  I  have  put  stops  to 
the  last  sentence,  and  crossed  the  t's  and  dotted  the  i's  !  It 
was  written  four  hours  ago,  before  dinner,  before  Jullien's 
concert,  before  a  walk  by  the  sea  shore. — I  have  been  think- 
ing what  a  number  of  ladies,  and  gentlemen  too,  live  like  you 
just  now,  in  a  smart  papered  rooms,  with  rats  gnawing 
behind  the  wainscot ;  Be  hanged  to  the  rats,  but  they  are  a 
sort  of  company.  You  must  have  a  poker  ready,  and  if 
the  rats  come  out,  bang!  beat  them  on  the  head.  This  is 
an  allegory,  why,  it  would  work  up  into  a  little  moral 
poem  if  you  chose  to  write  it.  Jullien  was  splendid  in  his 
white  waistcoat,  and  played  famous  easy  music  which  any- 
body may  comprehend  and  like.  There  was  a  delightful 
cornet  a  piston,  (mark  the  accent  on  the  a).  The  fact  is  I 
am  thinking  about  something  else  all  the  while  and  am 
very  tired  and  weary,  but  I  thought  I  would  like  to  say 
good  night  to  you,  and  what  news  shall  I  give  you  just  for 
the  last?  Well  then.  Miss  Virginia  is  gone  away,  not  to 
come  back  while  I  am  here.  Good  night,  ma'am,  if  you 
please. 

.  .  .  Being  entirely  occupied  with  my  two  new  friends, 
Mrs.  Pendennis  and  her  son  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  I  got  up 
very  early  again  this  morning,  and  was  with  them  for  more 
than  two  hours  before  breakfast.     He  is  a  very  good  natured 

*  The  Miss  Smiths  here  referred  to  are  the  daughters  of  the  late  Horace  Smith,  author  of 
"  Rejected  Addresses." 

The  Virginia  here  mentioned  was  the  beautiful  Miss  Pattle,  then  in  her  earliest  youth,  and 
who  is  now  the  widow  of  the  late  Earl  Somers.  In  those  days  she  lived  with  her  sister  and  her 
husband,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thoby  Prinsep  at  Little  Holland  House,  Kensington,  where  they 
gathered  around  them  a  charming  society  and  where  Mr.  Thackeray  was  ever  welcomed, 
almost  as  one  of  the  family.    Their  garden  parties  will  ever  be  remembered. 

5 


66  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

generous  young  fellow,  and  I  begin  to  like  him  considerably. 
I  wonder  whether  he  is  interesting  to  me  from  selfish  reasons 
and  because  I  fancy  we  resemble  each  other  in  many  points, 
and  whether  I  can  get  the  public  to  like  him  too  ?  We  had 
the  most  magnificent  sunshine  Sunday,  and  I  passed  the 
evening  very  rationally  with  Mr.  Fonblanque  and  Mr.  Shell, 
a  great  orator  of  whom  perhaps  you  have  heard,  at  present 
lying  here  affiicted  with  gout,  and  with  such  an  Irish  wife. 
Never  was  a  truer  saying  than  that  those  people  are  for- 
eigners. They  have  neither  English  notions,  manners,  nor 
morals.  I  mean  what  is  right  and  natural  to  them,  is  absurd 
and  unreasonable  to  us.  It  was  as  good  as  Mrs.  O'Dowd 
to  hear  Mrs,  Shell  interrupt  her  Richard  and  give  her  opin- 
ions on  the  state  of  Ireland,  to  those  two  great,  hard-headed, 
keen,  accomplished  men  of  the  world.  Richard  listened  to 
her  foolishness  with  admirable  forbearance  and  good  humour. 
I  am  afraid  I  don't  respect  your  sex  enough,  though.  Yes  I 
do,  when  they  are  occupied  with  loving  and  sentiment  rather 
than  with  other  business  of  life. 

I  had  a  mind  to  send  you  a  weekly  paper  containing  con- 
temptuous remarks  regarding  an  author  of  your  acquaintance. 
I  don't  know  who  this  critic  is,  but  he  always  has  a  shot  at 
me  once  a  month,  and  I  bet  a  guinea  he  is  an  Irishman. 

So  we  have  got  the  cholera.  Are  you  looking  out  for  a 
visit  ?  Did  you  try  the  Stethoscope,  and  after  listening  at 
your  chest,  did  it  say  that  your  lungs  were  sore  ? 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  67 

Fragment. 

[1849.] 

I  am  going-  to  dine  at  the  Berrys  to-day  and  to  Lady  Ash- 
burton's  at  night.  I  dined  at  home  three  days  running,  think 
of  that.  This  is  my  news,  it  isn't  much  is  it  ?  I  have  written 
a  wicked  number  of  Pendennis,  but  Hke  it  rather,  it  has  a 
good  moral,  I  beheve,  although  to  some  it  may  appear 
naughty.  Big  Higgins  *  who  dined  with  me  yesterday  of- 
fered me,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  If"  says  he,  "  you  are  tired 
and  want  to  lie  fallow  for  a  year,  come  to  me  for  the  money. 
I  have  much  more  than  I  want."  Wasn't  it  kind  ?  I  like  to 
hear  and  to  tell  of  kind  things. 


Wednesday.  1849. 
What  have  I  been  doing  since  these  many  days  ?  I 
hardly  know.  I  have  written  such  a  stupid  number  of  Penden- 
nis in  consequence  of  not  seeing  you,  that  I  shall  be  ruined 
if  you  are  to  stay  away  much  longer.  .  .  .  Has  William 
written  to  you  about  our  trip  to  Hampstead  on  Sunday  ?  It 
was  very  pleasant.  We  went  first  to  St.  Mark's  church, 
where  I  always  thought  you  went,  but  where  the  pew  opener 
had  never  heard  of  such  a  person  as  Mrs.  J.  O.  B. ;  and  hav- 
ing heard  a  jolly  and  perfectly  stupid  sermon,  walked  over 
Primrose  Hill  to  the  Crowes',  where  His  Reverence  gave  Mrs. 
Crowe  half  an  hour's  private  talk,  whilst  I  was  talking  under 
the  blossoming  apple  tree  about  newspapers  to  Monsieur 
Crowe.  Well,  Mrs.  Crowe  was  delighted  with  William  and 
his  manner  of  discoorsing  her ;  and  indeed  though  I  say  it 

*  Big  Higgins— the  well-known  writer  under  the  signature  of  Jacob  Omnium. 


6S  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

that  shouldn't,  from  what  he  said  afterwards,  and  from  what 
we  have  often  talked  over  pipes  in  private,  that  is  a  pious 
and  kind  soul.  I  mean  his,  and  calculated  to  soothe  and 
comfort  and  appreciate  and  elevate  so  to  speak  out  of  de- 
spair, many  a  soul  that  your  more  tremendous,  rigorous  di- 
vines would  leave  on  the  way  side,  where  sin,  that  robber, 
had  left  them  half  killed.  I  will  have  a  Samaritan  parson 
when  I  fall  among-  thieves.  You,  dear  lady,  may  send  for  an 
ascetic  if  you  like  ;   what  is  he  to  find  wrong  in  you  ? 

I  have  talked  to  my  mother  about  her  going  to  Paris  with 
the  children,  she  is  very  much  pleased  at  the  notion,  and  it 
won't  be  very  lonely  to  me.  I  shall  be  alone  for  some  months 
at  any  rate,  and  vow  and  swear  I'll  save  money. 
Have  you  read  Dickens  ?  O  !  it  is  charming  !  brave  Dickens  ! 
It  has  some  of  his  very  prettiest  touches — those  inimita- 
ble Dickens  touches  which  make  such  a  great  man  of  him ; 
and  the  reading  of  the  book  has  done  another  author  a  great 
deal  of  good.  In  the  first  place  it  pleases  the  other  author 
to  see  that  Dickens,  who  has  long  left  off  alluding  to  the  A.'s 
works,  has  been  copying  the  O.  A.,  and  greatly  simplifying 
his  style,  and  overcoming  the  use  of  fine  words.  By  this  the 
public  will  be  the  gainer  and  David  Coppej'field  will  be  im- 
proved by  taking  a  lesson  from  Vanity  Fair.  Secondly  it 
has  put  me  upon  my  metal ;  for  ah  !  Madame,  all  the  metal 
was  out  of  me  and  I  have  been  dreadfully  and  curiously  cast 
down  this  month  past.  I  say,  secondly,  it  has  put  me  on  my 
metal  and  made  me  feel  I  must  do  something ;  that  I  have 
fame  and  name  and  family  to  support. 

I  have  just  come  away  from  a  dismal  sight ;  Gore  House 
full  of  snobs  looking  at  the  furniture.  Foul  Jews  ;  odious 
bombazine  women,  who  drove  up  in  mysterious  flys  which 
they  had  hired,  the  wretches,  to  be  fined,  so  as  to  come  in 
state  to  a  fashionable  lounge  ;  brutes  keeping  their  hats  on 
in  the  kind  old  drawing  room, — I  longed  to  knock  some  of 


€)- 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  69 

them  off,  and  say  "  Sir,  be  civil  in  a  lady's  room." 
There  was  one  of  the  servants  there,  not  a  powdered  one, 
but  a  butler,  a  whatdyoucallit.  My  heart  melted  towards  him 
and  I  gave  him  a  pound.  Ah  !  it  was  a  strange,  sad  picture 
of  Vaiiity  Fair.  My  mind  is  all  boiling  up  with  it ;  indeed, 
it  is  in  a  queer  state.  ...  I  give  my  best  remembrances 
to  all  at  Clevedon  Court. 


[30th  yzine  1849.] 

My  dear  lady: 

I  have  2  opera  boxes  for  tonight — a  pit  box — for  the  Hu- 
guenots at  Covent  Garden — where  there  is  no  ballet,  and 
where  you  might  sit  and  see  this  grand  opera  in  great  ease 
and  quiet.  Will  you  please  to  say  if  you  will  have  it  and  I 
will  send  or  bring  it. 

Or  if  Miss  Hallam  dines  with  you,  may  I  come  afterwards 
to  tea  ?  Say  yes  or  no ;  I  sha'n't  be  offended,  only  best 
pleased  of  course  with  yes.  I  am  engaged  on  Monday 
Tuesday  and  Wednesday  nights,  so  if  you  go  away  on 
Thursday  I  shall  have  no  chance  of  seeing  you  again  for 
ever  so  lonof, 

I  was  to  breakfast  with  Mr.  Rogers  this  morning  but  he 
played  me  false. 

Good  bye 

W.  M.  T. 


70  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


Fragment. 

2  1  July  1849. 

\To  Mr.  Bwokfield.'] 

Adelaide  Procter  has  sent  me  the  most  elegant  velvet 
purse,  embroidered  with  my  initials,  and  forget-me-nots  on 
the  other  side.  I  received  this  peace-offering  with  a  gentle 
heart ;  one  must  not  lose  old  friends  at  our  time  of  life,  and 
if  one  has  offended  them  one  must  try  and  try  until  they  are 
brouofht  back. 

Mrs.  Powell,  the  lady  I  asked  you  to  stir  about,  has  got 
the  place  of  matron  of  the  Governesses,  a  house  and  perqui- 
sites, and  100  a  year,  an  immense  thing  for  a  woman  with 
nothing. 

On  the  30th  June,  the  day  you  went,  Rogers  threw  me 
over  for  breakfast,  and  to-day  comes  the  most  lamentable 
letter  of  excuse.  Yesterday,  the  day  madame  went  away, 
the  Strutts  asked  me  to  Greenwich,  and  when  I  got  there, 
no  dinner.  Another  most  pathetic  letter  of  excuse.  These 
must  be  answered  in  a  witty  manner,  so  must  Miss  Procter, 
for  the  purse ;  so  must  Mrs.  Alfred  Montgomery,  who  offers 
a  dinner  on  Monday ;  so  must  two  more,  and  I  must  write 
that  demnition  Mr.  Browne  before  evensong. 

From  the  Punch  office,  where  I'm  come  for  to  go  to 
dress,  to  dine  with  the  Lord  mayor ;  but  I  have  nothing  to 
say  but  that  I  am  yours,  my  dear  old  friend,  affectionately, 

W.  M.  T. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  7 1 


Fragment. 

[1849] 

I  was  to  <go  to  Mrs.  Montgomery's  at  this  hour  of  10.30, 
but  it  must  be  the  contrary,  that  is,  Mrs.  Procter's.  I  wrote 
Adelaide  her  letter  for  the  purse,  and  instead  of  thanking  her 
much,  only  discoursed  about  old  age,  disappointment,  death, 
and  melancholy. 

The  old  people  are  charming  at  home,  with  their  kind- 
ness. They  are  going  away  at  the  end  of  the  week,  some- 
where, they  don't  say  where,  with  the  children.  The  dear 
old  step-father  moves  me  rather  the  most,  he  is  so  gentle 
and  good  humoured.  Last  night  Harry  came  to  dinner,  and 
being  Sunday  there  was  none,  and  none  to  be  had,  and  we 
went  to  the  tavern  hard-bye,  where  he  didn't  eat  a  bit.  I 
did 

At  Procter's  was  not  furiously  amusing — the  eternal  G. 
bores  one.  Her  parents  were  of  course  there,  the  papa 
with  a  suspicious  looking  little  order  in  his  button  hole,  and 
a  chevalier   d' Industrie   air,  which    I    can't    get   over.       E. 

didn't    sing,  but    on    the    other    hand    Mrs. did.       She 

was  passionate,  she  was  enthusiastic,  she  was  sublime,  she 
was  tender.  There  was  one  note  that  she  kept  so  long, 
that  I  protest  I  had  time  to  think  about  my  affairs,  to  have  a 
little  nap,  and  to  awake  much  refreshed,  while  it  was  going 
on  still.  At  another  time,  overcome  by  almost  unutterable 
tenderness,  she  piped  so  low,  that  it's  a  wonder  one  could 
hear  at  all.  In  a  word,  she  was  mirobolante,  the  most  art- 
less, affected,  good-natured,  absurd,  clever  creature  possible. 
When  she  had  crushed  G.  who  stood  by  the  piano  hating 
her,  and  paying  her  the  most  profound    compliments — she 


72  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

tripped  off  on  my  arm  to  the  cab  in  waiting.      I  like  that  ab- 
surd kind  creature. 

Drums  are  beating  in  various  quarters  for  parties  yet  to 
come  off,  but  I  am  refusing  any  more,  being  quite  done  up. 
I  am  thinking  of  sending  the  old  and  young  folks  to  Cleve- 
don,  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Robbins  and  Mrs.  Parr  will  be  kind  to 
them,  won't  they  ? 


[During  an  Illness,  August  1849] 

No.  I. 

63  East  Street,  Brighton. 

Yesterday  I  had  the  courage  to  fly  to  Brighton,  I  have 
got  a  most  beautiful  lodging,  and  had  a  delightful  sleep.  I 
write  a  line  at  seven  o'clock  of  the  morning  to  tell  you  these 
good  news.     G  b  y. — 

No.  2. 

63  East  Street  Brighton. 

This  morning's,  you  know,  wasn't  a  letter,  only  to  tell 
you  that  I  was  pretty  well  after  my  travels ;  and  after  the 
letter  was  gone,  thinks  I,  the  handwriting  is  so  bad  and 
shaky,  she  will  think  I  am  worse,  and  only  write  fibs  to  try 
and  soothe  her.  But  the  cause  of  the  bad  writing  was  a  bad 
pen,  and  impossible  ink.  See  how  different  this  is,  though 
I  have  not  much  to  say  now,  only  that  I  have  been  sitting 
on  the  chain  pier  in  a  bath  chair  for  two  hours,  and  feel 
greatly  invigorated  and  pleasantly  tired  by  the  wholesome 
sea  breezes.  Shall  I  be  asleep  in  two  minutes  I  wonder  ?  I 
think  I  will  try,  I  think  snoring  is  better  than  writing.    Come, 


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LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  73 

let  US  try  a  little  doze  ;   a  comfortable  little  doze  of  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

Since  then,  a  somewhat  fatiguing  visit  from  the  Miss 
Smiths,  who  are  all  kindness,  and  look  very  pretty  in  their 
mourning.*  I  found  acquaintances  on  the  pier  too,  and  my 
chair  anchored  alongside  of  that  of  a  very  interesting  nice 
little  woman,  Mrs.  Whitmore,  so  that  there  was  more  talkee- 
talkee.  Well,  I  won't  go  on  writing  any  more  about  my 
ailments,  and  dozes  and  fatigues  ;  but  sick  folks  are  abomi- 
nably selfish  ;  sick  men  that  is,  and  so  God  bless  my  dear 
lady. 

W.  M.  T. 


Thursday. 

I  cannot  write  you  long,  dear  lady ;  I  have  two  notes  to 
my  mother  daily,  and  a  long  one  to  Elliotson,  &c.  ;  but  I  am 
getting  on  dotice77tent,  like  the  change  of  air  exceedingly,  the 
salt  water  baths,  and  the  bath-chair  journeys  to  the  pier 
where  it  is  almost  as  fresh  as  being  at  sea.  But  do  you  go 
on  writing,  please,  and  as  often  as  you  can  ;  for  it  does  me 
good  to  get  kind  letters.  God  bless  you  and  good-night,  is 
all  I  can  say  now,  with  my  love  to  his  Reverence  from 

W.  M.  T. 

*  Horace  Smith  died  12th  July,  1849. 


74  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


\^Paris,  Feb.  1849] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

I  have  been  to  see  a  great  character  to-day  and  another 
still  greater  yesterday.  To-day  was  Jules  Janin,  whose  books 
you  never  read,  nor  do  I  suppose  you  could  very  well.  He 
is  the  critic  of  the  Journal  des  Debats  and  has  made  his 
weekly  feuilleton  famous  throughout  Europe — He  does  not 
know  a  word  of  English,  but  he  translated  Sterne  and  I  think 
Clarissa  Harlowe.  One  week,  having  no  theatres  to  describe 
in  his  feuilleton,  or  no  other  subject  handy,  he  described  his 
own  marriage,  which  took  place  in  fact  that  week,  and  abso- 
lutely made  a  present  of  his  sensations  to  all  the  European 
public.  He  has  the  most  wonderful  verve,  humour,  oddity, 
honesty,  bonhomie.  He  was  ill  with  the  gout,  or  recovering 
perhaps  ;  but  bounced  about  the  room,  gesticulating,  joking, 
gasconading,  quoting  Latin,  pulling  out  his  books  which  are 
very  handsome,  and  tossing  about  his  curling  brown  hair ; — 
a  magnificent  jolly  intelligent  face  such  as  would  suit  Pan  I 
should  think,  a  flood  of  humourous,  rich,  jovial  talk.  And 
now  I  have  described  this,  how  are  you  to  have  the  least  idea 
of  him. — I  daresay  it  is  not  a  bit  like  him.  He  recommended 
me  to  read  Diderot ;  which  I  have  been  reading  in  at  his  rec- 
ommendation ;  and  that  is  a  remarkable  sentimental  cynic, 
too  ;  in  his  way  of  thinking  and  sudden  humours  not  unlike 
— not  unlike  Mr.  Bowes  of  the  Chatteris  Theatre.  I  can 
fancy  Harry  Pendennis  and  him  seated  on  the  bridge  and 
talking  of  their  mutual  mishaps  ; — no  Arthur  Pendennis  the 
boy's  name  is  !  I  shall  be  forgetting  my  own  next.  But 
mind  you,  my  similes  don't  go  any  further :  and  I  hope  you 
don't  go  for  to  fancy  that  you  know  anybody  like  Miss  Foth- 
eringay — you  don't  suppose  that  I  think  that  you  have  no 
heart,  do  you?     But  there's   many  a  woman  who  has  none, 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  75 

and  about  whom  men  go  crazy ; — such  was  the  other  char- 
acter I  saw  yesterday.  We  had  a  long  talk  in  which  she 
showed  me  her  interior,  and  I  inspected  it  and  left  it  in  a 
state  of  wonderment  which  I  can't  describe. 

She  is  kind,  frank,  open-handed,  not  very  refined,  with  a 
warm  outpouring  of  language ;  and  thinks  herself  the  most 
feeling  creature  in  the  world.  The  way  in  which  she  fasci- 
nates some  people  is  quite  extraordinary.  She  affected  me 
by  telling  me  of  an  old  friend  of  ours  in  the  country — Dr. 
Portman's  daughter  indeed,  who  was  a  parson  in  our  parts — 
who  died  of  consumption  the  other  day  after  leading  the  pur- 
est and  saintliest  life,  and  who  after  she  had  received  the  sac- 
rament read  over  her  friend's  letter  and  actually  died  with  it 
on  the  bed.  Her  husband  adores  her ;  he  is  an  old  cavalry 
Colonel  of  sixty,  and  the  poor  fellow  away  now  in  India,  and 
yearning  after  her  writes  her  yards  and  yards  of  the  most 
tender,  submissive,  frantic  letters  ;  five  or  six  other  men  are 
crazy  about  her.  She  trotted  them  all  out,  one  after  another 
before  me  last  night ;  not  humourously,  I  mean,  nor  making 
fun  of  them  ;  but  complacently,  describing  their  adoration  for 
her  and  acquiescing  in  their  opinion  of  herself  Friends,  lover, 
husband,  she  coaxes  them  all ;  and  no  more  cares  for  them 
than  worthy  Miss  Fotheringay  did. — Oh  !  Becky  is  a  trifle  to 
her ;  and  I  am  sure  I  might  draw  her  picture  and  she  would 
never  know  in  the  least  that  it  was  herself.  I  suppose  I  did 
not  fall  in  love  with  her  myself  because  we  were  brought  up 
together  ;  she  was  a  very  simple  generous  creature  then. 

Tuesday.  Friend  came  in  as  I  was  writing  last  night, 
perhaps  in  time  to  stop  my  chattering ;  but  I  am  encore 
tout  dmerveilU  de  ma  cousine.  By  all  the  Gods  !  I  never 
had  the  opportunity  of  inspecting  such  a  naturalness  and  co- 
quetry ;  not  that  I  suppose  that  there  are  not  many  such 
women  ;  but  I  have  only  myself  known  one  or  two  women 
intimately,  and   I   daresay  the   novelty   would  wear  off  if  I 


^6  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

knew  more.  I  had  the  Revue  'des  2  mondes  and  the  Jour' 
nal  des  Ddbats  to  dinner ;  and  what  do  you  think  by  way  of 
a  delicate  attention  the  ^>^^ served  us  up?  Mock- turtle  soup 
again,  and  uncommonly  good  it  was  too.  After  dinner  I 
went  to  a  ball  at  the  prefecture  of  Police ;  the  most  splendid 
apartments  I  ever  saw  in  my  life.  Such  lights,  pillars,  mar- 
ble, hangings,  carvings,  and  gildings.  I  am  sure  King  Bel- 
shazzar  could  not  have  been  more  magnificently  lodged. — ■ 
There  must  have  been  15  hundred  people,  of  whom  I  did 
not  know  one  single  soul.  I  am  surprised  that  the  people 
did  not  faint  in  the  Saloons,  which  were  like  burning  fiery 
furnaces  ;  but  there  they  were  dancing  and  tripping  away, 
ogling  and  flirting,  and  I  suppose  not  finding  the  place  a  bit 
inconveniently  warm.  The  women  were  very  queer  looking 
bodies  for  the  most,  I  thought,  but  the  men  dandies  every 
one,  fierce  and  trim  with  curling  little  mustachios.  I  felt 
dimly  that  I  was  3  inches  taller  than  any  body  else  in  the 
room  but  I  hoped  that  nobody  took  notice  of  me.  There 
was  a  rush  for  ices  at  a  footman  who  brought  those  refresh- 
ments which  was  perfectly  terrific. — They  were  scattered 
melting  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  as  I  ran  out  of  it  in  a 
panic.  There  was  an  old  British  dowager  with  two  daugh- 
ters seated  up  against  a  wall  very  dowdy  and  sad,  poor  old 
lady ;  I  wonder  what  she  wanted  there  and  whether  that  was 
what  she  called  pleasure.  I  went  to  see  William's  old  friend 
and  mine,  Bowes  ;  he  has  forty  thousand  a  year  and  palaces 
in  the  country,  and  here  he  is  a  manager  of  a  Theatre  of  Va- 
rietes,  and  his  talk  was  about  actors  and  coulisses  all  the  time 
of  our  interview.  I  wish  it  could  be  the  last,  but  he  has 
made  me  promise  to  dine  with  him,  and  go  I  must,  to  be 
killed  by  his  melancholy  gentlemanlikeness.  I  think  that  is 
all  I  did  yesterday.  Dear  lady,  I  am  pained  at  your  having 
been  unwell ;  I  thought  you  must  have  been,  when  Saturday 
came  without  any  letter.     There  wont  be  one  today  I  bet 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  77 

twopence.  I  am  going-  to  a  lecture  at  the  Institute  ;  a  lect- 
ure on  Burns  by  M.  Chasles,  who  is  professor  of  English 
literature.  What  a  course  of  lionizing,  isn't  it  ?  But  it  must 
stop ;  for  is  not  the  month  the  shortest  of  months  ?  I  went 
to  see  my  old  haunts  when  I  came  to  Paris  13  years  ago,  and 
made  believe  to  be  a  painter,— just  after  I  was  ruined  and 
before  I  fell  in  love  and  took  to  marriage  and  writing.  It 
was  a  very  jolly  time,  I  was  as  poor  as  Job  and  sketched 
away  most  abominably,  but  pretty  contented ;  and  we  used 
to  meet  in  each  others  little  rooms  and  talk  about  art  and 
smoke  pipes  and  drink  bad  brandy  and  water. — That  awful 
habit  still  remains,  but  where  is  art,  that  dear  mistress  whom 
I  loved,  though  in  a  very  indolent  capricious  manner,  but 
with  a  real  sincerity  ? — I  see  her  far,  very  far  off.  I  jilted 
her,  I  know  it  very  well ;  but  you  see  it  was  Fate  ordained 
that  marriage  should  never  take  place  ;  and  forced  me  to 
take  on  with  another  lady,  two  other  ladies,  three  other  la- 
dies ;   I  mean  the  muse  and  my  wife  &c.  &c. 

Well  you  are  very  good  to  listen  to  all  this  egotistic  prat- 
tle, chere  soeur,  si  douce  et  si  bonne.  I  have  no  reason  to 
be  ashamed  of  my  loves,  seeing  that  all  three  are  quite  law- 
ful. Did  you  go  to  see  my  people  yesterday  ?  Some  day 
when  his  reverence  is  away,  will  you  have  the  children  ?  and 
not,  if  you  please,  be  so  vain  as  to  fancy  that  you  can't  amuse 
them  or  that  they  will  be  bored  in  your  house.  They  must 
and  shall  be  fond  of  you,  if  you  please.  Alfred's  open  mouth 
as  he  looked  at  the  broken  bottle  and  spilt  wine  must  have 
been  a  grand  picture  of  agony. 

I  couldn't  find  the  lecture  room  at  the  Institute,  so  I  went 
to  the  Louvre  instead,  and  took  a  feast  with  the  statues  and 
pictures.  The  Venus  of  Milo  is  the  grandest  figure  of  figures. 
The  wave  of  the  lines  of  the  figure,  whenever  seen,  fills  my 
senses  with  pleasure.  What  is  it  which  so  charms,  satisfies 
one,  in  certain  lines  ?     O  !  the  man  who  achieved  that  statue 


yS  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY, 

was  a  beautiful  genius.  I  have  been  sitting  thinking  of  it 
these  lo  minutes  in  a  deHghtful  sensuous  rumination.  The 
Colours  of  the  Titian  pictures  comfort  one's  eyes  similarly  ; 
and  after  these  feasts,  which  wouldn't  please  my  lady  very 
much  I  daresay,  being  I  should  think  too  earthly  for  you,  I 
went  and  looked  at  a  picture  I  usedn't  to  care  much  for  in  old 
days,  an  angel  saluting  a  Virgin  and  child  by  Pietro  Cortona, 
— a  sweet  smiling  angel  with  a  lily  in  her  hands,  looking  so 
tender  and  gentle  I  wished  that  instant  to  make  a  copy  of  it, 
and  do  it  beautifully,  which  I  cant,  and  present  it  to  some- 
body on  Lady-day. — There  now,  just  fancy  it  is  done,  and 
presented  in  a  neat  compliment,  and  hung  up  in  your  room 
— a  pretty  piece — dainty  and    devotional? — I    drove   about 

with ,  and  wondered  at  her  more  and  more. — She  is  come 

to  "my  dearest  William"  now:  though  she  doesn't  care  a 
fig  for  me. — She  told  me  astonishing  things,  showed  me  a 
letter  in  which  every  word  was  true  and  which  was  a  fib  from 
beginning  to  end; — A  miracle  of  deception; — flattered,  fon- 
dled, coaxed — O  !  she  was  worth  coming  to  Paris  for  !  .  .  . 
Pray  God  to  keep  us  simple.  I  have  never  looked  at  any- 
thing in  my  life  which  has  so  amazed  me.  Why,  this  is  as 
good,  almost,  as  if  I  had  you  to  talk  to.  Let  us  go  out  and 
have  another  walk. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  79 


Fragment 

\Paris,  1849] 

Of  course  in  all  families  the  mother  is  the  one  to  whom 
the  children  cling.  We  don't  talk  to  them,  feel  with  them, 
love  them,  occupy  ourselves  about  them  as  the  female  does. 
— We  think  about  our  business  and  pleasure,  not  theirs. 
Why  do  I  trouble  you  with  these  perplexities  ?  If  I  mayn't 
tell  you  what  I  feel,  what  is  the  use  of  a  friend  ?  That's  why 
I  would  rather  have  a  sad  letter  from  you,  or  a  short  one  if 
you  are  tired  and  unwell,  than  a  sham-gay  one — and  I  don't 
subscribe  at  all  to  the  doctrine  of  "  striving  to  be  cheerful  ". 
A  quoi  bon,  convulsive  grins  and  humbugging  good-humour  ? 
Let  us  have  a  reasonable  cheerfulness,  and  melancholy  too, 
if  there  is  occasion  for  it — and  no  more  hypocrisy  in  life  than 
need  be. 

We  had  a  pleasant  enough  visit  to  Versailles,  and  then  I 
went  to  see  old  Halliday,  and  then  to  see  old  Bess,  and  to 
sit  with  the  sick  Tom  Fraser.  I  spend  my  days  so,  and  upon 
my  word  ought  to  get  some  reward  for  being  so  virtuous. 

On  Sunday  I  took  a  carriage  and  went  to  S.  in  the  coun- 
try. The  jolly  old  nurse  who  has  been  in  the  Ricketts  family 
120  years  or  more  or  less,  talked  about  Miss  Rosa,  late  M- 
Fanshawe,  and  remembers  her  the  flower  of  that  branch  of 
the  family,  and  exceedingly  pretty  and  with  a  most  lovely  com- 
plexion.— And  then  I  told  them  what  a  lovely  jewel  the  pres- 
ent Miss  Rosa  was  ;  and  how  very  fond  I  was  of  her  mamma  ; 
— and  so  we  had  a  tolerably  pleasant  afternoon  ; — and  I  came 
back  and  sat  again  with  Mr.  Thomas  Fraser.  Yesterday 
there  was  a  pretty  little  English  dance  next  door  at  Mrs.  Er- 
rington's,  and  an  English  country  dance  being  proposed,  one 
of  the  young  bucks  good-naturedly  took  a  fiddle  and  played 


8o  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

very  well   too,  and   I  had  for  a  partner  Madame  Gudin,  the 
painters  wife,  I  think  I  mentioned  her  to  you,  didn't  I  ? 

She  is  a  daughter  of  Lord  James  Hay — a  very  fair  com- 
plexion and  jolly  face,  and  so  with  the  greatest  fear  and  trepi- 
dation (for  I  never  could  understand  a  figure)  I  asked  her — • 
and  she  refused  because  she  tells  me  that  she  is  too  ill,  and  I 
am  sure  I  was  very  glad  to  be  out  of  the  business. 

I  went  to  see  a  play  last  night,  and  the  new  comedian 
Mademoiselle  Brohan  of  whom  all  the  world  is  talking,  a  beau- 
tiful young  woman  of  17  looking  25  and — I  thought — vulgar, 
intensely  affected,  and  with  a  kind  of  stupid  intelligence  that 
passes  for  real  wit  with  the  pittites,  who  applauded  with  im- 
mense enthusiasm  all  her  smiles  and  shrugs  and  gestures 
and  ogles.  But  they  wouldn't  have  admired  her  if  she  hadn't 
been  so  beautiful,  if  her  eyes  weren't  bright  and  her  charms 
undeniable. — I  was  asked  to  beg  some  of  the  young  English 
Seigneurs  here  to  go  to  an  Actress  ball,  where  there  was  to 
be  a  great  deal  of  Parisian  beauty,  which  a  cosmophilite  ought 
to  see  perhaps  as  well  as  any  other  phase  of  society. — But  I 
refused  Madame  Osy's  ball — my  grey  head  has  no  call  to 
show  amongst  these  young  ones,  and,  as  in  the  next  novel 
we  are  to  have  none  but  good  characters — what  is  the  use 
of  examining  folks  who  are  quite  otherwise.  Meanwhile, 
and  for  10  days  more,  I  must  do  my  duty  and  go  out  feeling 
deucedly  lonely  in  the  midst  of  the  racketting  and  jigging. 
I  am  engaged  to  dinner  for  the  next  3  days,  and  on  Friday 
when  I  had  hoped  to  be  at  home — my  mother  has  a  tea- 
party,  and  asked  trembling  (for  she  is  awfully  afraid  of  me) 

whether  I  would  come — Of  course  I'll  go. 

W.  M.  T. 


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UL«4/U  -^i^lt*^  •      t)wi  ijtfu  ^:wi  2«ui  <***i^  i^  lU.  UAioi^  c^ 


l.rU/Uc*t  ,  OjuuL  llua   \yc<i^    \iu  'UJXtfi    IChn^tt  .    VVUjuI  ^  lomU;   Hi  luuO 
^oX^nic  rt^oAAc^y  G.^\>^  '^o^tty -cu^  (I  Y^  ll^c 

I  ^flu   ^t^ruw4  -  ?«vW^tcL*J^    lu.  ,^^^  -^lu^Li    |v^rtU£^   ^O/t^ 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY,  8 1 


\^Paris,  1849] 

They  all  got  a  great  shock  they  told  me,  by  reading  in 
the  Galignani,  that  W.  M.  Thackeray  was  dead,  and  that  it 
was  I.  Indeed  two  W.  Thackeray's  have  died  within  the 
last  month.  Eh  bicji  f  There's  a  glum  sort  of  humour  in 
all  this  I  think,  and  I  grin  like  a  skull. — As  I  sent  you  a  let- 
ter to  my  Mamma,  here  is  a  sermon  to  Annie.  You  will 
please  put  it  in  the  post  for  me  ?  I  think  about  my  dear 
honest  old  Fatty,  with  the  greatest  regard  and  confidence. 
I  hope,  please  God,  she  will  be  kept  to  be  a  companion  and 
friend  to  me.     You  see  I  work  in  the  Herschell. 

Give  my  love  to  Harry  when  you  write  to  him,  and  to 
Mrs.  Fanshawe  and  to  Missy.  I  haven't  time  to  transact  let- 
ters to  them  to-day,  or  I  should  use  our  traveller  who  carries 
this  here,  and  glory  in  saving  2/.  by  that  stratagem.  And 
I'd  have  you  know.  Madam,  that  I  wish  I  was  going  to  dine 
at  Portman  Street  as  I  did  this  day  week ;  but  that  as  I  can't, 
why,  I  will  be  a  man,  and  do  my  duty.  Bon  soir  William, 
boil  soir  Madame. 


A  Fragment 

[1849] 

What  you  say  about  Mrs.  being  doomed  does  not 

affect  me  very  much,  I  am  afraid.  I  don't  see  that  living  is 
such  a  benefit,  and  could  find  it  in  my  heart  pretty  readily  to 
have  an  end  of  it, — After  wasting  a  deal  of  opportunities  and 
time  and  desires  in  vanitarianism.  What  is  it  makes  one  so 
blase  and  tired  I  wonder  at  38  ?  Is  it  pain  or  pleasure  ? 
6 


82  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

Present  solitude  or  too  much  company  before  ?  both  very 
likely.  You  see  I  am  here  as  yesterday,  gloomy  again,  and 
thrumming  on  the  old  egotistical  string. — But  that  I  think 
you  would  be  pleased  to  have  a  letter  from  me  dear  lady,  I'd 
burn  these  2  sheets,  or  give  my  blue  devils  some  other  outlet 
than  into  your  kind  heart. 

Here  are  some  verses  which  I  have  been  knocking  about, 
and  are  of  the  same  gloomy  tendency.  You  must  know  that 
I  was  making  a  drawing  which  was  something  like  you  at 
first,  but  ended  in  a  face  that  is  not  in  the  least  like  yours ; 
whereupon  the  Poet  ever  on  the  watch  for  incidents  began  A 
Failure. 


A  Failure 

Beneath  this  frank  and  smiling  face, 
You  who  would  look  with  curious  eye 
The  draughtsman's  inward  mind  to  spy, 

Some  other  lineaments  may  trace. 
Ah  !  many  a  time  I  try  and  try 

Lady,  to  represent  their  grace. 


Dear  face  !     The  smile  with  which  'tis  lit 
The  mantling  blush,  the  gentle  eyes. 
Each  individual  feature  lies 

Within  my  heart  so  faithful  writ. 
Why  fails  my  pencil  when  it  tries  ? 


(Here  lines  may  be  inserted  Ad  lib.  compli- 
mentary to  the  person) 


O^Jc^     i^K    i^  ^. 


^ 


V-&-^ 


yf^ 


^. 


[From  the  original  manuscript  of  Clough's  "  Flags  of  Piccadilly,"  with  a  drawing  by  Thackeray,  in  the  possession 

of  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell.] 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  83 

I  look  upon  the  altered  line 

And  think  it  ever  is  my  lot ; 

A  something  always  comes  to  blot 
And  mar  my  impossible  design — 
A  mocking  Fate  that  bids  me  pine, 

And  struggle  and  achieve  it  not. 


Poor  baulked  endeavours  incomplete  ! 
Poor  feeble  sketch  the  world  to  show, 
While  the  marred  truth  lurks  lost  below  ! 

What's  life  but  this  ?  a  cancelled  sheet, 

A  laugh  disguising  a  defeat ! 

Let's  tear  and  laugh  and  own  it  so. 


Exit  with  a  laugh  of  demoniac  scorn.  But  I 
send  the  very  original  drawing,  to  these  very 
original  verses — 


3  Sept.  1849. 

From  Paris, 

Monday. 
The  man  who  was  to  carry  my  letter  yesterday,  fled  with- 
out giving  me  notice,  so  Madame  loses  the  sermon  to  Annie, 
the  pretty  picture,  &c.  I  haven't  the  courage  to  pay  the 
postage  for  so  much  rubbish.  Isn't  it  curious  that  a  gentle- 
man of  such  expensive  habits  should  have  this  meanness 
about  paper  and  postage  ?  The  best  is  that  I  have  spent 
three  francs  in  cab-hire,  hunting  for  the  man  who  was  to  carry 
my  two-franc  letter.     The  follies  of  men  are  ceaseless,  even 


84  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

of  comic  authors,  who  make  it  their  business  to  laug  hat  the 
follies  of  all  the  rest  of  the  world. 

What  do  you  think  I  did  yesterday  night  ?  If  you  please, 
ma'am,  I  went  to  the  play ;  and  I  suppose  because  it  was 
Sunday,  was  especially  diverted,  and  laughed  so  as  to  make 
myself  an  object  in  the  stalls ;  but  it  was  at  pure  farcicality, 
not  at  wit.  The  piece  was  about  a  pleasure  excursion  to 
London  ;  and  the  blunders  and  buffoonery,  mingled,  made 
the  laughter.  ''Eh  out,  nous  irons  a  Greenwich,  manger  un 
excellent  sandwich  "  was  a  part  of  one  of  the  songs. 

My  poor  Aunt  is  still  in  life,  but  that  is  all ;  she  has  quite 
lost  her  senses.  I  talked  for  some  time  with  her  old  husband, 
who  has  been  the  most  affectionate  husband  to  her,  and  who 
is  looking  on,  he  being  72  years  old  himself,  with  a  calm  res- 
olution and  awaiting  the  moment  which  is  to  take  away  his 
life's  companion.  .  .  .  As  for  Pendennis,  I  began  upon 
No.  7  to-day  and  found  a  picture  which  was  perfectly  new 
and  a  passage  which  I  had  as  utterly  forgotten  as  if  I  had 
never  read  or  written  it.  This  shortness  of  memory  fright- 
ens me,  and  makes  me  have  gloomy  anticipations.  Will  poor 
Annie  have  to  nurse  an  old  imbecile  of  a  father  some  day,  who 
will  ramble  incoherently  about  old  days  and  people  whom 
he  used  to  love  ?  What  a  shame  it  is  to  talk  such  gloomy 
stuff  to  my  dear  lady ;  well,  you  are  accustomed  to  hear  my 
chatter,  gloomy  or  otherwise,  as  my  thoughts  go  by.  I  fancy 
myself  by  the  dear  old  sofa  almost,  as  I  sit  here  prating  ; 
and  shut  my  eyes  and  see  you  quite  clear.  I  am  glad  you 
have  been  doing  works  of  art  with  your  needle.     .     .     . 

W.  H.  Ainsworth,  Esquire,  is  here ;  we  dined  next  each 
other  at  the  ^  Freres  yesterday  and  rather  fraternized.  He 
showed  a  friendly  disposition  I  thought,  and  a  desire  to  forgive 
me  my  success  ;  but  beyond  a  good-humoured  acquiescence 
in  his  good  will,  I  don't  care.  I  suppose  one  doesn't  care  for 
people,  only  for  a  very,  very  few.     A  man  came  in  just  now 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  85 

who  told  me  he  had  heard  how  I  was  dead.  I  began  to 
laugh,  and  my  laugh  meant,  "  Well  old  fellow,  you  don't  care, 
do  you  ?  "  And  why  should  he  ?  How  often  I  must  have 
said  and  said  these  things  over  to  you.  Oui  Madame,  jc  77ie 
rdpete.  Jc  me  fats  vieitx  /  joublie  /  je  radote  /  je  ne  parle 
que  de  mot.  ye  voils  fais  subir  m^on  cgois7iic,  ma  melancholie. 
— Le  jour  viendra-t-il  oh  elle  vous  genera  ?  Eh,  mo7i  dieu  ; 
— ne  soyo7ts  pas  trop  curieux  j  de77iai7i  viendra  '  atijourd' 
hui J  oitblierai — pourquoi  ne  vous  vois-je  pas  aujour-d'  huif 
I  think  you  have  enough  of  this  for  to-day,  so  good-night. 
Good  bye,  Mr.  Williams.  I  fancy  the  old  street-sweeper  at 
the  corner  is  holding  the  cob,  I  take  my  hat  and  stick,  I  say 
good  bye  again,  the  door  bangs  finally.  Here's  a  shilling  for 
you,  old  street-sweeper ;  the  cob  trots  solitary  into  the  Park. 
ye  fais  de  la  littdrature,  ma  parole  d'  /ion7ieur  ! — dze-  style — ■ 
du  Sterne  tout  pur — O  vanitas  v  ant  latum- !  God  bless 
all, 

W.  M.  T. 


\j\th  Sept.  1849] 

Tuesday,  Paris. 

Perhaps  by  my  intolerable  meanness  and  blundering,  you 
will  not  get  any  letter  from  me  till  to-morrow.  On  Sunday, 
the  man  who  was  to  take  the  letter  failed  me ;  yesterday  I 
went  with  it  in  a  cab  to  the  Grande  Poste,  which  is  a  mile  off, 
and  where  you  have  to  go  to  pay.  The  cab  horse  was  lame, 
and  we  arrived  two  minutes  too  late  ;  I  put  the  letter  into  the 
unpaid-letter  box  ;  I  dismissed  the  poor  old  broken  cab  horse, 
behind  which  it  was  agonizing  to  sit ;  in  fine  it  was  a  failure. 

When  I  got  to  dinner  at  my  aunt's,  I  found  all  was  over. 
Mrs.  H.  died  on  Sunday  night  in  her  sleep,  quite  without 
pain,  or  any  knowledge  of  the  transition.     I   went  and  sat 


86  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

with  her  husband,  an  old  fellow  of  seventy-two,  and  found 
him  bearing  his  calamity  in  a  very  honest  manly  way.  What 
do  you  think  the  old  orentleman  was  doing  ?  Well,  he  was 
drinking  gin  and  water,  and  I  had  some  too,  telling  his  valet 
to  make  me  some.  Man  thought  this  was  a  master-stroke 
of  diplomacy  and  evidently  thinks  I  have  arrived  to  take  pos- 
session as  heir,  but  I  know  nothing  about  money  matters  as 
yet,  and  think  that  the  old  gentleman  at  least  will  have  the 
enjoyment  of  my  aunt's  property  during  life.  He  told  me 
some  family  secrets,  in  which  persons  of  repute  figure  not 
honorably.  Ah  !  they  shock  one  to  think  of  Pray,  have 
you  ever  committed  any  roguery  in  money  matters  ?  Has 
William  ?  Have  I  ?  I  am  more  likely  to  do  it  than  he,  that 
honest  man,  not  having  his  resolution  or  self-denial.  But 
I've  not  as  yet,  beyond  the  roguery  of  not  saving  perhaps, 
which  is  knavish  too.  I  am  very  glad  I  came  to  see  my  dear- 
est old  aunt.  She  is  such  a  kind  tender  creature,  laws  bless 
us,  how  fond  she  would  be  of  you.  I  was  going  to  begin  about 
William  and  say,  '  do  you  remember  a  friend  of  mine  who 
came  to  dine  at  the  Thermes,  and  sang  the  song  about  the 
Mogul,  and  the  blue-bottle  fly,'  but  modesty  forbade  and  I 
was  dumb. 

Since  this  was  written  in  the  afternoon  I  suppose  if  there 
has  been  one  virtuous  man  in  Paris  it  is  madame's  most  oba- 
jient  servant.  I  went  to  sit  with  Mr.  H.  and  found  him  tak- 
ing what  he  calls  his  tiffin  in  great  comfort  (tiffin  is  the  meal 
which  I  have  sometimes  had  the  honor  of  sharing  with  you 
at  one  o'clock)  and  this  transacted, — and  I  didn't  have  any 
tiffin,  having  consumed  a  good  breakfast  two  hours  previously 
— I  went  up  a  hundred  stairs  at  least,  to  Miss.  B.  H.'s  airy 
apartment,  and  found  her  and  her  sister,  and  sat  for  an  hour. 
She  asked  after  you  so  warmly  that  I  was  quite  pleased  ;  she 
said  she  had  the  highest  respect  for  you,  and  I  was  glad  to 
find  somebody  who  knew  you ;  and  all   I   can  say  is,  if  you 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  87 

fancy  I  like  being  here  better  than  in  London,  you  are  in  a 
pleasing  error ; 

Then  I  went  to  see  a  friend  of  my  mother's,  then  to  have 
a  very  good  dinner  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  where  I  had  potage 
a  la  pourpart,  think  oi pourpart  soup.  We  had  it  merely  for 
the  sake  of  the  name,  and  it  was  uncommonly  good.  Then 
back  to  old  H.  again,  to  bawl  into  his  ears  for  an  hour  and  a 
half;  then  to  drink  tea  with  my  aunt — why,  life  has  been  a 
series  of  sacrifices  today,  and  I  must  be  written  up  in  the 
book  of  good  works.  For  I  should  have  liked  to  go  to  the 
play,  and  follow  my  own  devices  best,  but  for  that  stern  sen- 
timent of  duty,  which  fitfully  comes  over  the  most  abandoned 
of  men,  at  times.  All  the  time  I  was  with  Mr.  H.  in  the 
morning,  what  do  you  think  they  were  doing  in  the  next 
room  ?  It  was  like  a  novel.  They  were  rapping  at  a  coffin  in 
the  bedroom,  but  he  was  too  deaf  to  hear,  and  seems  too  old 
to  care  very  much.  Ah  !  dear  lady,  I  hope  you  are  sleeping 
happily  at  this  hour,  and  you,  and  Mr.  Williams,  and  another 
party  who  is  nameless,  shall  have  all  the  benefits  of  an  old 
sinner's  prayers. 

I  suppose  I  was  too  virtuous  on  Tuesday,  for  yesterday  I 
got  back  to  my  old  selfish  ways  again,  and  did  what  I  liked 
from  morning  till  night.  This  self  indulgence  though  entire 
was  not  criminal,  at  first  at  least,  but  I  shall  come  to  the 
painful  part  of  my  memoirs  presently.  All  the  forenoon  I 
read  with  intense  delight,  a  novel  called  Le  Vicomte  de  Bra- 
gelonne,  a  continuation  of  the  famous  Mousquetaires  and  just 
as  interesting,  keeping  one  panting  from  volume  to  volume, 
and  loneine  for  more.  This  clone,  and  after  a  walk  and  some 
visits,  read  more  novels,  David  Copperjield  to  wit,  in  which 
there  is  a  charming  bit  of  insanity,  and  which  I  begin  to  be- 
lieve is  the  very  best  thing  the  author  has  yet  done.  Then 
to  the  Varidtes  Theatre,  to  see  the  play  Cha^neleon,  after 
which  all  Paris  is  running,  a  general  satire  upon  the  last  6a 


88  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

years.  Everything  is  satirised,  Louis  XVI,  the  Convention, 
the  Empire,  the  Restoration  etc.,  the  barricades,  at  which 
these  people  were  murdering  each  other  only  yesterday — it's 
awful,  immodest,  surpasses  my  cynicism  altogether.  At  the 
end  of  the  piece  they  pretend  to  bring  in  the  author  and  a 
little  child  who  can  just  speak,  comes  in  and  sings  a  satiric 
song,  in  a  feeble,  tender,  infantine  pipe,  which  seemed  to  me 
as  impious  as  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  the  piece.  They  don't 
care  for  anything,  not  religion,  not  bravery,  not  liberty,  not 
great  men,  not  modesty.  Ah  !  madame,  what  a  great  moral- 
ist somebody  is,  and  what  moighiy  foine  principles  entoirely 
he  has  ! 

But  now,  with  a  blush  upon  my  damask  cheek,  I  come  to 
the  adventures  of  the  day.  You  must  know  I  went  to  the 
play  with  an  old  comrade,  Roger  de  Beauvoir,  an  ex-dandy 
and  man  of  letters,  who  talked  incessantly  during  the  whole 
of  dinner  time,  as  I  remember,  though  I  can't  for  the  life  of 
me  recall  what  he  said.  Well  we  went  together  to  the  play, 
and  he  took  me  where  William  would  long  to  go,  to  the 
green-room.  I  have  never  been  in  a  French  green-room  be- 
fore, and  was  not  much  excited,  but  when  he  proposed  to 
take  me  up  to  the  loge  of  a  beautiful  actress  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  the  prettiest  little  r^/rcz^^-i-^'nosey-posey  in  the  world, 
I  said  to  the  r(^gisseur  of  the  theatre  '  lead  on '  !  and  we  went 
through  passages  and  up  stairs  to  the  loge,  which  is  not  a 
box,  but  O  !  gracious  goodness,  a  dressing  room  !  —  — 

She  had  just  taken  off  her  rouge,  her  complexion  was 
only  a  thousand  times  more  brilliant,  perhaps,  the  peignoir  of 
black  satin  which  partially  enveloped  her  perfect  form,  only 
served  to  heighten  &c,  which  it  could  but  partially  do  &c. 
Her  lips  are  really  as  red  as  &c,  and  not  covered  with  paint 
at  all.  Her  voice  is  delicious,  her  eyes,  O  !  they  flashed  &c 
upon  me,  and  I  felt  my  &c,  beating  so  that  I  could  hardly 
speak.     I  pitched  in,  if  you  will  permit  me  the  phrase,  two  or 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  89 

three  compliments  however,  very  large  and  heavy,  of  the 
good  old  English  sort,  and  O  !  fno7i  dieu  she  has  asked  me 
to  go  and  see  her.  Shall  I  go,  or  shan't  I  ?  Shall  I  go  this 
very  day  at  4  o'clock,  or  shall  I  not  ?  Well,  I  won't  tell  you, 
I  will  put  up  my  letter  before  4,  and  keep  this  piece  of  intelli- 
gence for  the  next  packet. 

The  funeral  takes  place  to-morrow,  and  as  I  don't  seem 
to  do  much  work  here,  I  shall  be  soon  probably  on  the  wing, 
but  perhaps  I  will  take  a  week's  touring  somewhere  about 
France,  Tours  and  Nantes  perhaps  or  elsewhere,  or  any- 
where, I  don't  know,  but  I  hope  before  I  go  to  hear  once 
more  from  you.  I  am  happy  indeed  to  hear  how  well  you 
are.  What  a  shame  it  was  to  assault  my  dear  lady  with  my 
blue  devils.  Who  could  help  looking  to  the  day  of  failing 
powers,  but  if  I  last  a  few  years,  no  doubt  I  can  get  a  shelter 
somewhere  against  that  certain  adversity,  and  so  I  ought  not 
to  show  you  my  glum  face  or  my  dismal  feelings.  That's  the 
worst  of  habit  and  confidence.  You  are  so  kind  to  me  that  I 
like  to  tell  you  all,  and  to  think  that  in  good  or  ill  fortune  I 
have  your  sympathy.  Here's  an  opportunity  for  sentiment, 
here's  just  a  little  bit  of  the  page  left  to  say  something  neat 
and  pretty,  yeles  meprise  les  jolis  mots,  vous  en  ai-j'e  jamais 
fait  de  ma  vie?  ye  Ics  laisse  a  Monsieitr  Bullar  et  ses  pa- 
reils — -j'enferai pour  Mademoiselle  Page,  pour  la  ravissante 
la  sdmillante  la  frMillante  Adcle  {c  est  ainsi  qu  elle  se  nomm^e) 
mais  pour  vousf  Allons — partons — il  est  qtiatre  heures — 
fermons  la  lettre — disons  adieu,  fam^ie  et  moi — vous  m  ecri- 
rez  avant  mon  depart  nest  ce pas?  Allez  bien,  dormez  bien^ 
m.archez  bieyi,  sil  vous  plait,  et  gardy  mwaw  ung  petty  mo- 
reso  de  voter  cure.  W.  M.  T. 


90  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


Paris,  [1849] 

As  my  mother  wants  a  line  from  me,  and  it  would  cost  me 
no  more  to  write  on  two  half  sheets  than  one  whole  one,  com- 
mon economy  suggests  that  I  should  write  you  a  line  to  say 
that  I  am  pretty  well,  and  leading,  as  before,  a  dismal  but 
dutiful  life.  I  go  and  sit  with  the  old  Scotch  widower  every 
night,  and  with  my  aunt  afterwards.  This  isn't  very  amusing, 
but  the  sense  of  virtue  and  self-denial  tickles  one,  as  it  were, 
and  I  come  home  rather  pleased  to  my  bed  of  a  night.  I 
shall  stay  here  for  a  few  days  more.  My  tour  will  be  to 
Boulogne,  probably,  where  I  shan't  find  the  Crowes,  who  are 
going  away,  but  shall  have  Mrs.  Procter ;  and  next  week 
will  see  me  back  in  London  probably,  working  away  as  in  the 
old  way. 

Yesterday  I  went  a  little  way  into  the  country  to  see  Miss 
R's  husband,  my  old  friend  S.  They  have  just  got  a  little 
son,  a  beautiful  child,  and  the  happiness  of  this  couple  was 
pleasant,  albeit  somehow  painful,  to  witness.  She  is  a  very 
nice,  elegant  accomplished  young  lady,  adoring  her  Augustus, 
who  is  one  of  the  best  and  kindest  of  old  snobs.  We  walked 
across  vines  to  the  coach  at  half  past  seven  o'clock,  after  an 
evening  of  two  hours  and  a  half,  which  was  quite  enough  for 
me.  She  is  a  little  thing,  and  put  me  in  mind  of  my  own  wife 
somehow.  Give  Mrs.  Fanshawe,  with  my  respectful  love,  a 
good  account  of  her  cousin.  I  am  bound  to-day  to  another 
country  place,  but  don't  like  the  idea  of  it.  Tomorrow  I  dine 
with  Mr.  T.  B.  Macaulay,  who  is  staying  in  this  hotel. 

And  what  else  has  happened  ?  I  have  been  to  see  the 
actress,  who  received  us  in  a  yellow  satin  drawing  room,  and 
who  told  me  that  she  had  but  one  fault  in  the  world,  that  she 
had  trop  bon  coeur,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  I  pitched  in 
still  stronger  compliments  than  before,  and  I  daresay  that  she 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  9 1 

thinks  the  enormous  old  Englishman  is  rapturously  in  love 
with  her  ;  but  she  will  never  see  him  again,  that  faithless 
giant.  I  am  past  the  age  when  Fotheringays  inflame,  but  I 
shall  pop  her  and  her  boudoir  into  a  book  some  day,  and  that 
will  be  the  end  of  our  transactions.  A  good  character  for  a 
book  accompanied  us  to  the  funeral,  an  expatriated  parson, 
very  pompous,  and  feeble-minded :  who  gets  his  living  by 
black  jobs  entirely  and  attends  all  the  funerals  of  our  country- 
men ;  he  has  had  a  pretty  good  season  and  is  tolerably  cheer- 
ful. I  was  struck  by  "Behold  I  show  you  a  mystery"  and 
the  noble  words  subsequent,  but  my  impression  is,  that  St. 
Paul  fully  believed  that  the  end  of  things  and  the  triumph  of 
his  adored  master,  was  to  take  place  in  his  own  time,  or  the 
time  of  those  round  about  him.  Surely  St.  John  had  the 
same  feeling,  and  I  suppose  that  this  secret  passed  fondly 
among  the  initiated,  and  that  they  died  hoping  for  its  fulfil- 
ment.    Is  this  heresy  ?     Let  his  reverence  tell  me. 

Madame,  if  you  will  be  so  diffident  about  your  composi- 
tions there  is  no  help  for  it.  Your  letter  made  me  laugh 
very  much,  and  therefore  made  me  happy.  When  I  saw 
that  nice  little  Mrs.  S.  with  her  child  yesterday,  of  course  I 
thought  about  somebody  else.  The  tones  of  a  mother's 
voice  speaking  to  an  infant,  play  the  deuce  with  me  some- 
how ;  that  charming  nonsense  and  tenderness  work  upon 
me  until  I  feel  like  a  woman  or  a  great  big  baby  myself, — 
liddlededee.     .     .     . 

And  here  the  paper  is  full  and  we  come  to  the  final 
G.  B.  Y. 

I  am  always, 

W.  M.  T. 


92  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


\Paris,  September  14,  1849.] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

This  letter  doesn't  count,  though  it's  most  probbly  the 
last  of  the  series.  Yesterday  I  couldn't  write  for  I  went  to 
Chambourey  early  in  the  morning  to  see  those  two  poor 
Miss  Powers,  and  the  poor  old  faded  and  unhappy  D'Orsay, 
and  I  did  not  return  home  till  exactly  i  minute  before  post 
time,  perhaps  2  late  for  the  letter  which  I  flung  into  the  post 
last  night.  And  so  this  is  the  last  of  the  letters  and  I  am 
coming  back  immediately.  The  last  anything  is  unpleas- 
ant. 

I  was  to  have  gone  to-morrow  for  certain  to  Boulogne,  at 
least,  but  a  party  to  Fontainebleau  was  proposed — by  whom 
do  you  think  ? — by  the  President  himself,  I  am  going  to  dine 
with  him  to-day,  think  of  that !  I  believe  I  write  this  for  the 
purpose  solely  of  telling  you  this, — the  truth  is  I  have  made 
acquaintance  here  with  Lord  Douglas,  who  is  very  good  nat- 
ured,  and  I  suppose  has  been  instigating  the  President  to 
these  hospitalities.  I  am  afraid  I  disgusted  Macaulay  yester- 
day at  dinner,  at  Sir  George  Napier's.  We  were  told  that 
an  American  lady  was  coming  in  the  evening,  whose  great 
desire  in  life,  was  to  meet  the  author  of  Vanity  Fair,  and  the 
author  of  the  Lays  of  A.  Rome,  so  I  proposed  to  Macaulay 
to  enact  me,  and  to  let  me  take  his  character.  But  he  said 
solemnly,  that  he  did  not  approve  of  practical  jokes,  and  so 
this  sport  did  not  come  to  pass.  Well,  I  shall  see  you  at  any 
rate,  some  day  before  the  23d.,  and  I  hope  you  will  be  happy 
at  Southampton  enjoying  the  end  of  the  autumn,  and  I  shall 
be  glad  to  smoke  a  pipe  with  old  Mr.  Williams  too,  for  I 
don't  care  for  new  acquaintances,  whatever  some  people  say, 
and  have  only  your  house  now  where  I  am  completely  at 
home.      I  have  been  idle  here,  but  I  have  done  plenty  of  du- 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  93 

tifulness,  haven't  I  ?  I  must  go  dress  myself  and  tell  old  Dr. 
Halliday  that  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the  President,  that  will 
please  him  more  than  even  my  conversation  this  evening,  and 
the  event  will  be  written  over  to  all  the  family  before  long,  be 
sure  of  that.  Don't  you  think  Mr.  Parr  will  like  to  know  it, 
and  that  it  will  put  me  well  with  him  ?  Perhaps  I  shall  find 
the  grand  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  under  my  plate,  I 
will  put  it  on  and  come  to  you  in  it  in  that  case. 

I  was  going  to  have  the  impudence  to  give  you  a  daguer- 
reotype of  myself  which  has  been  done  here,  very  like  and 
droll  it  looks,  but  it  seemed  to  me  too  impertinent,  and  I  gave 
it  to  somebody  else.  I've  bought  William  four  glasses  to 
drink  beer  out  of,  since  I  never  can  get  one  of  the  silver  ones 
when  I  come ;  don't  let  him  be  alarmed,  these  only  cost  a 
shilling  apiece,  and  two  such  loves  of  eaii  de  Cologne  bottles 
for  Mrs.  Procter,  and  for  my  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield  I  have 
bought  a  diamond  necklace  and  earrings, — I  have  bought 
you  nothing  but  the  handkerchiefs  but  I  hope  you  will  let 
me  give  you  those,  won't  you  ? 

I  was  very  sorry  for  Turpin,  I  do  feel  an  interest  in  her, 
and  I  think  she  is  very  pretty,  all  this  I  solemnly  vow  and 
protest.  My  paper  is  out,  here's  the  last  corner  of  the  last 
letter.     I  wonder  who  will  ask  me  to  dine  on  Monday  next. 


October  31st.     [1849] 

My  dear  Monsieur  et  Madame  : 

Harry  says  that  you  won't  eat  your  dinner  well  if  I  don't 
write  and  tell  you  that  I  am  thriving,  and  though  I  don't  con- 
sider this  a  letter  at  all  but  simply  a  message,  I  have  to  state 
that  I  am  doing  exceedingly  well,  that  I  ate  a  mutton  chop 
just  now  in  Harry's  presence  with  great  gusto,  that  I  slept 


94  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

12  hours  last  night  and  in  fact  advance  by  steps  which  grow 
every  day  more  firm  toward  convalescence.  If  you  will  both 
come  down  here  I  will  give  you  beautiful  rooms  and  the  best 
of  mutton. — I  shall  stop  till  Monday  certainly,  after  which  I 
may  probably  go  to  the  club. 

G.  B.  Y.  Both  on  you. 

W.  M.  T. 


[Probably  from  Brighton  after  serious  illness.] 

\Dec :  1 849] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

The  weather  is  so  fine  and  cheerful  that  I  have  made  my 
mind  up  to  go  down  to  Brighton  tomorrow,  or  somewhere 
where  I  can  be  alone,  and  think  about  my  friend  Mr.  Penden- 
nis,  whom  I  have  been  forced  to  neglect.  I  have  been  work- 
ing now  until  seven  o'clock  and  am  dead  beat,  having  done  a 
poor  dawdling  day's  work,  writing  too  much,  hipped,  hacked 
and  blue-devilled.  I  passed  Portman  Street  after  an  hour's 
ride  in  the  Park  but  hadn't  time  to  come  in,  the  infernal  task- 
master hanging  over  me ;  so  I  gave  my  bridle  reins  a  shake 
and  plunged  into  doggerel.  Good  bye  God  bless  you,  come 
soon  back  both  of  you.  Write  to  me  won't  you  ?  I  wish  a 
Merry  Christmas  for  you  and  am 

always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


Ill 


[Ml  ^ti/^ 


[A  note  and  sketch  sent  by  Thackeray  to   Mrs.  Elliot,   in  the  possession  of  Miss   Kt.te   Perry.l 

•■  This  note  and  sketch,  and  those  on  pp.  72  and  M^.  were  written  and  drawn  f"' "^  f^'«"^,=i„^rs  ^'"°|S^^Jj,7ayll^^^^^ 
ry.  who  has  kindly  sent  them  to  me.  to  add  lo  my  own  letters,  as  they  belong  to  the  same  period  of  Mr.  1  hacKeray 


Perry,  who  has  kindly 
J.  O.  B 


mtjXiM4^    kiu^Uk*  ^ifU^Ui  li^ka  \iu  Aah  \fti^  )  (u  Kiu 
ckt  \  AAi^  iU  Wo,  a4  ^  UfZJtiHa  "fiu*   i«4<^  v^t*  l««^ 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  95 


Fragment. 

S^Christmas,    1849] 

I  stop  in  the  middle  of  Costigan  with  a  remark  appHed  to 
readers  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  and  others,  which  is,  I  think, 
that  cushion-thumpers  and  High  and  Low  Church  extatics, 
have  often   carried  what  they  call   their  love  for  A  to   what 

seems  impertinence  to  me.     How  good  my has  been  to 

me  in  sending  me  a  back  ache, — how  good  in  taking  it  away, 
how  blessed  the  spiritual  gift  which  enabled  me  to  receive  the 
sermon  this  morning, — how  trying  my  dryness  at  this  after- 
noon's discourse,  &c.  I  say  it  is  awful  and  blasphemous  to 
be  calling  upon  Heaven  to  interfere  about  the  thousand  trivi- 
alities of  a  man's  life,  that  • •  has  ordered  me  something 

indigestible  for  dinner,  (which  may  account  for  my  dryness  in 
the  afternoon's  discourse)  ;  to  say  that  it  is  Providence  that 
sends  a  draught  of  air  upon  me  which  gives  me  a  cold  in  the 
head,  or  superintends  personally  the  action  of  the  James' 
powder  which  makes  me  well.  Bow  down.  Confess,  Adore, 
Admire,  and  Reverence  infinitely.  Make  your  act  of  faith 
and  trust.  Acknowledge  with  constant  awe  the  idea  of  the 
infinite  Presence  over  all. — But  what  impudence  it  is  in  us,  to 
talk  about  loving  God  enough,  if  I  may  so  speak.  Wretched 
little  blindlings,  what  do  we  know  about  Him  ?  Who  says 
that  we  are  to  sacrifice  the  human  affections  as  disrespectful 
to  God  ?  The  liars,  the  wretched  canting  fakirs  of  Christian- 
ism,  the  convent  and  conventicle  dervishes, — they  are  only 
less  unreasonable  now  than  the  Eremites  and  holy  women 
who  whipped  and  starved  themselves,  never  washed,  and  en- 
couraged vermin  for  the  glory  of  God.  Washing  is  allowed 
now,  and  bodily  filth  and  pain  not  always  enjoined ;  but  still 
they  say,  shut  your   ears  and  don't  hear  music,  close  your 


96  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

eyes  and  don't  see  nature  and  beauty,  steel  your  hearts  and 
be  ashamed  of  your  love  for  your  neighbour  ;  and  timid  fond 
souls  scared  by  their  curses,  and  bending  before  their  unend- 
ing arrogance  and  dulness,  consent  to  be  miserable,  and  bare 
their  soft  shoulders  for  the  brutes'  stripes,  according  to  the 
nature  of  women.  You  dear  Suttees,  you  get  ready  and  glo- 
rify in  being  martyrized.  Nature,  truth,  love,  protest  day 
after  day  in  your  tender  hearts  against  the  stupid  remorseless 
tyranny  which  bullies  you.  Why  you  dear  creature,  what  a 
history  that  is  in  the  Thomas  a  Kempis  book !  The  scheme 
of  that  book  carried  out  would  make  the  world  the  most 
wretched,  useless,  dreary,  doting  place  of  sojourn — there 
would  be  no  manhood,  no  love,  no  tender  ties  of  mother  and 
child,  no  use  of  intellect,  no  trade  or  science,  a  set  of  selfish 
beings  crawling  about  avoiding  one  another  and  howling  a 
perpetual  miserere.  We  know  that  deductions  like  this  have 
been  drawn  from  the  teaching  of  J.  C,  but  please  God  the 
world  is  preparing  to  throw  them  over,  and  I  won't  believe 
them  though  they  are  written  in  ever  so  many  books,  any 
more  than  that  the  sky  is  green  or  the  grass  red.  Those 
brutes  made  the  grass  red  many  a  time,  fancying  they  were 
acting  rightly,  amongst  others  with  the  blood  of  the  person 
who  was  born  today.  Good-bye  my  dear  lady  and  my  dear 
old  William. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  gy 


Fragment. 

[1850] 

I  was  too  tired  to  talk  to  Madam  when  I  sent  away  the 
packet  of  MS  to-day.  I'm  not  much  better  now,  only  using 
her  as  pastime  at  a  club  half  an  hour  before  dinner.  That's 
the  way  we  use  women.  Well,  I  was  rather  pleased  with  the 
manuscript  I  sent  you  to-day,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  good 
comedy,  my  mother  would  have  acted  in  just  such  a  way  if  I 
had  run  away  with  a  naughty  woman,  that  is  I  hope  she 
would,  though  perhaps  she  is  prouder  than  I  am  myself  I 
read  over  the  first  part  of  Pe?idcnnis  to-day,  all  the  Emily 
Costigan  part,  and  liked  it,  I  am  glad  to  say  ;  but  I  am 
shocked  to  think  that  I  had  forgotten  it,  and  read  it  almost 
as  a  new  book.  I  remembered  allusions  which  called  back 
recollections  of  particular  states  of  mind.  The  first  part  of 
that  book  was  written  after  Clevedon  in  1848 

What  a  wholesome  thing  fierce  mental  occupation  is ! 
Better  than  dissipation  to  take  thoughts  out  of  one  ;  only  one 
can't  always  fix  the  mind  down  and  other  thoughts  will  bother 
it.  Yesterday  I  sat  for  six  hours  and  could  do  no  work ;  I 
wasn't  sentimentalizing  but  I  couldn't  get  the  pen  to  go,  and 
at  four,  rode  out  into  the  country  and  saw,  whom  do  you 
think  ?  O  !  lache,  coward,  sneak,  and  traitor,  that  pretty 
Mrs.  M.  I  wrote  you  about.  The  night  before  in  the  same 
way,  restless  and  wandering  aventurier  (admire  my  constant 
use  of  French  terms),  I  went  to  Mrs.  Prinsep's  and  saw  Vir- 
ginia, then  to  Miss  Berrys'  and  talked  to  Lord  Lansdowne 
who  was  very  jolly  and  kind. 

Then  to  Lady  Ashburton,  where  were  Jocelyns  just  come 
back  from  Paris,  my  lady  in  the  prettiest  wreath. — We  talked 

7 


98  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

about  the  Gorham  controversy,  I  think,  and  when  the  Joce- 
lyns  were  gone  about  John  Mill's  noble  Article  in  the  West- 
minster Review  ',  an  article  which  you  mustn't  read,  because 
it  will  shock  your  dear  convictions,  but  wherein,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  a  great  soul  speaks  great  truths ;  it  is  time  to  begin 
speaking  truth  I  think.  Lady  Ashburton  says  not.  Our 
Lord  spoke  it  and  was  killed  for  it,  and  Stephen,  and  Paul, 
who  slew  Stephen.  We  shuffle  and  compromise  and  have 
Gorham  controversies  and  say,  "let  things  go  on  smoothly," 
and  Jock  Campbell  writes  to  the  Mother-Superior,  and  Mil- 
man  makes  elegant  after-dinner  speeches  at  the  Mansion 
House — humbugs  all  !  I  am  becoming  very  stupid  and 
rabid,  dinner-time  is  come ;  such  a  good  dinner,  truth  be 
hanged  !     Let  us  go  to  Portland  Place. 


{July,  1850] 

My  dear  Lady  : 

I  have  had  a  bad  week  and  a  most  cruel  time  of  it  this 
month ;  my  groans  were  heart-rending,  my  sufferings  im- 
mense;  I  thought  No.  XIX  would  never  be  born  alive; — It 
is,  but  stupid,  ricketty,  and  of  feeble  intellect,  I  fear.  Isn't  that 
a  pretty  obstetrical  metaphor?  Well,  I  suppose  I  couldn't  get 
on  because  I  hadn't  you  to  come  and  grumble  to.  You  see 
habit  does  so  much,  and  though  there  is  Blanche  Stanley  to 
be  sure,  yet  shall  I  tell  you, — I  will  though  perhaps  you  won't 
believe  it — I  haven't  been  there  for  a  month.  And  what  a 
singular  thing  it  is  about  my  dear  friend  Miss  F. — that  I 
never  spoke  to  her  but  once  in  my  life  when  I  think  the 
weather  was  our  subject — and  as  for  telling  her  that  I  had 
drawn  Amelia  from  anybody  of  our  acquaintance  I  should  have 
as  soon  thought  of — of  what  ?  I  have  been  laboriously  cross- 
ing all  my  t's,  see,  and  thinking  of  a  simile.     But  it's  good  fun 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  99 

about  poor  little  B.  Does  any  body  suppose  I  should  be  such 
an  idiot  as  to  write  verses  to  her  ?  I  never  wrote  her  a  line. 
I  once  drew  one  picture  in  her  music  book,  a  caricature  of  a 
spoony  song,  in  which  I  laughed  at  her,  as  has  been  my  prac- 
tice— alas  !  .  .  .  The  only  person  to  whom  I  remember 
having  said  anything  about  Amelia  was  the  late  Mrs.  Ban- 
croft, as  I  told  you,  and  that  was  by  a  surprise. 

Yesterday  after  a  hard  day's  labour  went  out  to  Rich- 
mond ;  dined  with  old  Miss  Berrys.  Lord  Brougham  there, 
enormously  good  fun,  boiling  over  with  humour  and  mischief, 
the  best  and  wickedest  old  fellow  I've  met,  I  think.  And  I 
was  better  in  health  than  I've  been  for  a  fortnight  past.  O  ! 
how  I  should  like  to  come  on  Sunday  by  the  Excursion  train, 
price  5 1 ,  and  shake  hands  and  come  back  again  !  I've  been 
working  Pen  all  the  morning  and  reading  back  numbers  in 
order  to  get  up  names  &c.,  I'd  forgotten.  I  lit  upon  a  very 
stupid  part  I'm  sorry  to  say ;  and  yet  how  well  written  it  is  ! 
What  a  shame  the  author  don't  write  a  complete  good  story. 
Will  he  die  before  doing  so  ?  or  come  back  from  America  and 
do  it  ? — 

And  now  on  account  of  the  confounded  post  regulations — 
I  shan't  be  able  to  hear  a  word  of  you  till  Tuesday.  It's  a 
sin  and  a  shame  to  cut  2  days  out  of  our  week  as  the  Phari- 
sees do — and  I'll  never  forgive  Lord  John  Russell,  never. — - 
The  young  ladies  are  now  getting  ready  to  walk  abroad  with 
their  dear  Par. — It  is  but  a  hasty  letter  I  send  you  dear  lady, 
but  my  hand  is  weary  with  writing  Pendennis — and  my  head 
boiling  up  with  some  nonsense  that  I  must  do  after  dinner  for 
Punch.  Isn't  it  strange  that,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  selfish- 
ness, that  one  of  doing  one's  business,  is  the  strongest  of  all. 
What  funny  songs  I've  written  when  fit  to  hang  myself! 


lOO  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


Thursday. 

As  I  am  not  to  come  back  till  Saturday,  and  lest  you 
should  think  that  any  illness  had  befallen  me,  dear  lady,  I 
send  you  a  little  note.  This  place  is  as  handsome  as  man 
could  desire  ;  the  park  beautiful,  the  quizeen  and  drinks  ex- 
cellent, the  landlord  most  polite  and  good  natured,  with  a 
very  winning  simplicity  of  manner  and  bonhomie,  and  the 
small  select  party  tolerably  pleasant.  Charles  Villiers,  a  bit- 
ter Voltairian  joker,  who  always  surprises  one  into  laughter ; 
— Peacock — did  you  ever  read  Headlong  Hall  and  Maid 
Marian  ? — a  charming  lyrical  poet  and  Horatian  satirist  he 
was  when  a  writer ;  now  he  is  a  whiteheaded  jolly  old  world- 
ling, and  Secretary  to  the  E.  India  House,  full  of  information 
about  India  and  everything  else  in  the  world.  There  are  4 
or  5  more,  2  young  lords, — one  extremely  pleasant,  gentle- 
man-like, and  modest,  who  has  seen  battles  in  India  and  gives 
himself  not  the  least  airs ;— and  there  are  the  young  ladies,  2 
pretty  little  girls,  with  whom  I  don't  get  on  very  well  though, 
— nor  indeed  with  anybody  over  well.  There's  something 
wanting,  I  can't  tell  you  what ;  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  be  on 
the  homeward  way  again,  but  they  wouldn't  hear  of  my  going 
on  Friday,  and  it  was  only  by  a  strong  effort  that  I  could  get 
leave  for  Saturday. 

This  paper  you  see  is  better,  I  bought  it  regardless  of  ex- 
pense— half  a  ream  of  it,  at  Bristol. 

That  Bristol  terminus  is  a  confounding  place.  I  missed 
the  train  I  was  to  go  by,  had  very  nearly  gone  to  Exeter  and 
was  obliged  to  post  twenty-five  miles  in  the  dark,  from  Chip- 
penham, in  order  to  get  here  too  late  for  dinner.  Whilst  I 
am  writing  to  you  what  am  I  thinking  of?  Something  else 
to  be  sure,  and  have  a  doggrel  ballad  about  a  yellow  "  Post 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  lOI 

Chay  "  running  in  my   head  which   I    ought    to    do    for    Mr. 
Punch. 

We  went  to  the  Httle  church  yesterday,  where  in  a  great 
pew  with  a  fire  in  it,  I  said  the  best  prayers  I  could  for  them 
as  I  am  fond  of.  I  wish  one  of  them  would  get  well 
I  must  give  my  young  ones  three  or  four  weeks  of  Paris  and 
may  go  a  travelling  myself  during  that  time  ;  for  I  think  my 
dear  old  mother  will  be  happier  with  the  children  and  without 
their  father,  and  will  like  best  to  have  them  all  to  herself. 
Mon  dieu,  is  that  the  luncheon  bell  already  ?  I  was  late  at 
dinner  yesterday,  and  late  at  breakfast  this  morning.  It  is 
eating  and  idling  all  day  long,  but  not  altogether  profitless 
idling,  I  have  seen  winter  woods,  winter  landscapes,  a  kennel 
of  hounds,  jolly  sportsmen  riding  out  a  hunting,  a  queer  little 
country  church  with  a  choir  not  in  surplices  but  in  smock- 
frocks,  and  many  a  sight  pleasant  to  think  on. — I  must  go  to 
lunch  and  finish  after,  both  with  my  dear  lady  and  the  yellow 
po'chay. 

Will  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  come  and  dine  with  Mr. 
Thackeray  on  Saturday  ?  He  will  arrive  by  the  train  which 
reaches  London  at  5.25,  and  it  would  be  very,  very  pleasant 
if  you  could  come — or  one  of  you,  man  or  woman.  Mean- 
while I  close  up  my  packet  with  a  g.  b.  y.  to  my  dear  lady 
and  a  kiss  to  Miss  Brookfield,  and  go  out  for  a  walk  in  the 
woods  with  a  noble  party  that  is  waiting  down-stairs.  The 
days  pass  away  in  spite  of  us,  and  we  are  carried  along  the 
rapid  stream  of  time,  you  see.  And  if  days  pass  quick,  why 
a  month  will,  and  then  we  shall  be  cosily  back  in  London 
once  more,  and  I  shall  see  you  at  your  own  fire,  or  lying  on 
your  own  sofa,  very  quiet  and  calm  after  all  this  trouble  and 
turmoil.  God  bless  you,  dear  lady  and  William,  and  your 
little  maiden. 

W.  M.  T. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAJT^ORNTA 
RANT  A  BARriARA  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


I02  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


26  February,  1850. 

After  hearing"  that  Miss  Brookfield  was  doing  well  in  the 
arms  of  her  Mamma,  if  you  please,  I  rode  in  the  Park  on  Tues- 
day, where  there  was  such  a  crowd  of  carriages  along  the 
Serpentine,  that  I  blushed  to  be  on  horseback  there,  and 
running  the  gauntlet  of  so  many  beauties.  Out  of  a  thou- 
sand carriages  I  didn't  know  one,  which  was  odd,  and  strikes 
one  as  showing  the  enormity  of  London.  Of  course  if  there 
had  been  anybody  in  the  carriages  I  should  have  known 
them,  but  there  was  nobody,  positively  nobody.  (This  sen- 
tence isn't  as  neatly  turned  as  it  might  have  been,  and  is  by 
no  means  so  playfully  satirical  as  could  be  wished.)  Riding 
over  the  Serpentine  Bridge,  six  horsemen,  with  a  lady  in  the 
middle,  came  galloping  upon  me,  and  sent  me  on  to  the  foot 
pavement  in  a  fright,  when  they  all  pulled  up  at  a  halt,  and 
the  lady  in  the  middle  cried  out.  How  do  you  do  Mr.  &c. 
The  lady  in  the  middle  was  pretty  Mrs.  L.  She  made  me 
turn  back  with  the  six  horsemen  ;  of  course  I  took  off  my  hat 
with  a  profound  bow,  and  said  that  to  follow  in  her  train 
was  my  greatest  desire — and  we  rode  back,  all  through  the 
carriao-es,  making-  an  immense  clatter  and  sensation,  which 
the  lady  in  the  middle,  her  name  was  Mrs.  Liddle,  enjoyed 
very  much.  She  looked  uncommonly  handsome,  she  had 
gentlemen  with  moustachios  on  each  side  of  her.  I  thought 
we  looked  like  Brighton  bucks  or  provincial  swells,  and  felt  by 
no  means  elated. 

Then  we  passed  out  of  Hyde  Park  into  the  Green  Ditto, 
where  the  lady  in  the  middle  said  she  must  have  a  canter, 
and  off  we  set,  the  moustachios,  the  lady,  and  myself,  skurry- 
ing  the  policemen  off  the  road  and  making  the  walkers  stare. 
1  was  glad  when  we  got  to  St.  James'  Park  gate,  where  I 
could  take  leave  of  that  terrific  black-eyed  beauty,  and  ride 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  I03 

away  by  myself.  As  I  rode  home  by  the  Elliot's  I  longed 
to  go  in  and  tell  them  what  had  happened,  and  how  it  was 
your  little  girl's  birth-day  ;  but  I  did  not,  but  came  home  and 
drank  her  health  instead,  and  wrote  her  a  letter  and  slept 
sound. 

Yesterday  after  writing  for  three  hours  or  so,  what  did  I 
go  out  for  to  see  ?  First  the  Miss  Jingleby's,  looking  very 
fresh  and  pretty  ;  you  see  we  have  consolations  ;  then  a  poor 
fellow  dying  of  consumption.  He  talked  as  they  all  do,  with 
a  jaunty,  lively  manner,  as  if  he  should  recover  ;  his  sister 
sat  with  us,  looking  very  wistfully  at  him  as  he  talked  on 
about  hunting,  and  how  he  had  got  his  cold  by  falling  with 
his  horse  in  a  brook,  and  how  he  should  get  better  by  going 
to  St.  Leonard's  ;  and  I  said  of  course  he  would,  and  his 
sister  looked  at  him  very  hard.  As  I  rode  away  through^ 
Brompton,  I  met  two  ladies  not  of  my  acquaintance,  in  a 
brougham,  who  nevertheless  ogled  and  beckoned  me  in  a  very 
winning  manner,  which  made  me  laugh  most  wonderful.  O  ! 
you  poor  little  painted  Jezebels,  thinks  I,  do  you  think  you 
can  catch  such  a  grey-headed  old  fogey  as  me  ?  poor  little 
things.  Behind  them  came  dear,  honest,  kind  Castlereagh, 
galloping  along  ;  he  pulled  up  and  shook  hands  ;  that  good 
fellow  was  going  on  an  errand  of  charity  and  kindness,  con- 
sumption hospital,  woman  he  knows  to  get  in,  and  so  forth. 
There's  a  deal  of  good  in  the  wicked  world,  isn't  there  ?  I 
am  sure  it  is  partly  because  he  is  a  lord  that  I  like  that  man  ; 
but  it  is  his  lovingness,  manliness,  and  simplicity  which  I  like 
best.  Then  I  went  to  Chesham  Place,  where  I  told  them 
about  things.  You  ought  to  be  fond  of  those  two  women, 
they  speak  so  tenderly  of  you.  Kate  Perry  is  very  ill  and 
can  scarcely  speak  with  a  sore  throat ;  they  gave  me  a  pretty 
bread  tray,  which  they  have  carved  for  me,  with  wheat-ears 
round  the  edge,  and  W.  M.  T.  in  the  centre.  O  !  yes,  but 
before  that  I  had  ridden  in  the  Park,  and  met  dear  old  Elliot- 


I04  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

son,  thundering  along  with  the  great  horses,  at  ten  miles  an 
hour.  The  little  'oss  trotted  by  the  great  'osses  quite  easily 
though,  and  we  shook  hands  at  a  capital  pace,  and  talked  in 
a  friendly  manner,  and  as  I  passed  close  by  your  door,  why 
I  just  went  in  and  saw  William  and  Mrs.  F.     Then  at  eight 

o'clock,  a  grand  dinner  in  Jewry 

My !  what  a  fine  dinner,  what  plate  and  candelabra,  what  a 
deal  of  good  things,  and  sweetmeats  especially  wonderful. 
The  Christians  were  in  a  minority.  Lady  C.  beautiful,  serene, 
stupid  old  lady ;  she  asked  Isn't  that  the  great  Mr.  Thack- 
eray ?  O  !  my  stars  think  of  that !  Lord  M H cele- 
brated as  a  gourmand  ;  he  kindly  told  me  of  a  particular  dish, 
which  I  was  not  to  let  pass,  something  li  la  Pompadour,  very 
nice.  Charles  Villiers,  Lady  Hislop,  pretty  little  Hattie  El- 
liot, and  Lady  Somebody, — and  then  I  went  to  Miss  Berrys' 
— Kinglake,  Phillips,  Lady  Stuart  de  Rothesay,  Lady  Water- 
ford's  mother.  Colonel  Damer.  There's  a  day  for  you. 
Well,  it  was  a  very  pleasant  one,  and  perhaps  this  gossip 
about  it,  will  amuse  my  dear  lady. 


[Written  to  Mrs.  Fanshawe  and  Mrs.  Brookfield.] 

H6tel  Bristol,  Place  Vendome. 

Tuesday,  March  5th.  1850 
My  dear  Ladies  : 

I  am  arrived  just  this  minute  safe  and  sound  under  the 
most  beautiful  blue  sky,  after  a  fair  passage  and  a  good 
night's  rest  at  Boulogne,  where  I  found,  what  do  you  think  ? 
— a  letter  from  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  dated  September  13th, 
which  somehow  gave  me  as  much  pleasure  as  if  it  had  been 
a  fresh  letter  almost,  and  for  which  I  am  very  much  obliged 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 05 

to  you.  I  travelled  to  Paris  with  a  character  for  a  book,  Lord 
Howden,  the  exbeau  Caradoc  or  Cradock,  a  man  for  whom 
more  women  have  gone  distracted  than  you  have  any  idea  of. 
So  delightful  a  middle-aged  dandy  !  Well,  he  will  make  a 
page  in  some  book  some  day.  In  the  meantime  I  want  to 
know  why  there  is  no  letter  to  tell  me  that  madame  is  getting 
on  well.  I  should  like  to  hear  so  much.  It  seems  a  shame 
to  have  come  away  yesterday  widiout  going  to  ask.  It  was 
the  suddenest  freak,  done,  packed  and  gone  in  half  an  hour, 
hadn't  time  even  to  breakfast.  .  .  .  And  as  I  really 
wanted  a  litde  change  and  fresh  air  for  my  lungs,  I  think  I 

did  well  to  escape 

I  send  this  by  the  Morning  Chronicle's  packet.  Don't  be 
paying  letters  to  me,  but  write  &  write  away,  and  never  mind 
the  expense,  Mrs.  Fanshawe. 

W.  M.  T. 


Hotel  Bristol,  Place  Vend6me. 

[1850] 

Madame: 

One  is  arrived,  one  is  at  his  ancient  lodging  of  the  Hotel 
Bristol,  one  has  heard  the  familiar  clarions  sound  at  nine 
hours  and  a  half  under  the  Column,  the  place  is  whipped  by 
the  rain  actually,  and  only  rare  umbrellas  make  themselves 
to  see  here  and  there  ;  London  is  grey  and  brumous,  but 
scarcely  more  sorrowful  than  this.  For  so  love  I  these 
places,  it  is  with  the  eyes  that  the  sun  makes  itself  on  the 
first  day  at  Paris  ;  one  has  suffered,  one  has  been  disabused, 
but  one  is  not  biased  to  this  point  that  nothing  more  excites, 
nothing  amuses.  The  first  day  of  Paris  amuses  always. 
Isn't  this  a  perfectly  odious   and  affected  style  of  writing? 


Io6  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

Wouldn't  you  be  disgusted  to  have  a  letter  written  all  like 
that  ?  Many  people  are  scarcely  less  affected,  though,  in 
composing  letters,  and  translate  their  thoughts  into  a  pom- 
pous unfamiliar  language,  as  necessary  and  proper  for  the 
circumstances  of  letter-writing.  In  the  midst  of  this  senti- 
ment Jeames  comes  in,  having  been  employed  to  buy  pens  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  having  paid  he  said  three  francs  for 
twenty. — I  go  out  in  a  rage  to  the  shop,  thinking  to  con- 
found the  woman  who  had  cheated  him  ;  I  place  him  outside 
the  shop  and  entering  myself  ask  the  price  of  a  score  of  pens  ; 
one  franc  says  the  woman  ;  I  call  in  Jeames  to  confront  him 
with  the  tradeswoman  ;  she  says,  I  sold  monsieur  a  box  of 
pens,  he  gave  me  a  five-franc  piece,  I  returned  him  two  2-franc 
pieces,  and  so  it  was  ;  only  Jeames  never  having  before  seen 
a  two-franc  piece,  thought  that  she  had  given  back  two  franc 
pieces ;  and  so  nobody  is  cheated,  and  I  had  my  walk  in  the 
rain  for  nothing. 

But  as  this  had  brought  me  close  to  the  Palais  Royal, 
where  there  is  the  exhibition  of  pictures,  I  went  to  see  it, 
wondering  whether  I  could  turn  an  honest  penny  by  criticis- 
ing the  same.  But  I  find  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  pict- 
ures. A  pretty  landscape  or  two  pleased  me  ;  no  statues  did  ; 
some  great  big  historical  pictures  bored  me.  This  is  a  poor 
account  of  a  Paris  exhibition,  isn't  it  ?  looking  for  half  a  min- 
ute at  a  work  which  had  taken  a  man  all  his  might  and  main 
for  a  year ;  on  which  he  had  employed  all  his  talents,  and  set 
all  his  hopes  and  ambition  ;  about  which  he  had  lain  awake 
at  night  very  probably,  and  pinched  himself  of  a  dinner  that 
he  might  buy  colours  or  pay  models, — -I  say  it  seems  very 
unkind  to  look  at  such  a  thing  with  a  yawn  and  turn  away 
indifferent ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  cold,  marble  statues 
looked  after  me  reproachfully  and  said,  "  Come  back,  you  sir ! 
don't  neglect  me  in  this  rude  way.  I  am  very  beautiful,  I  am 
indeed.      I  have  many  hidden  charms  and  qualities  which  you 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 07 

don't  know  yet,  and  which  you  would  know  and  love  if  you 
would  but  examine  a  little."  But  I  didn't  come  back,  the 
world  didn't  care  for  the  hidden  charms  of  the  statue,  but 
passed  on  and  yawned  over  the  next  article  in  the  Catalogue. 
There  is  a  moral  to  this  fable,  I  think ;  and  that  is  all  I  got 
out  of  the  exhibition  of  the  Palais  Royal. 

Then  I  went  to  beat  up  the  old  haunts,  and  look  about 
for  lodgings  which  are  awfully  scarce  and  dear  in  this  quar- 
ter. Here  they  can  only  take  me  in  for  a  day  or  two,  and  I 
am  occupying  at  present  two  rooms  in  a  gorgeous  suite  of 
apartments  big  enough  and  splendid  enough  for  the  Lord 
Chief  Baron  *  and  all  his  family.  Oh !  but  first,  I  forgot,  I 
went  to  breakfast  with  Bear  Ellice,  who  told  me  Lady  Sand- 
wich had  a  grand  ball,  and  promised  to  take  me  to  a  soiree  at 
Monsieur  Duchatel's.  I  went  there  after  dining  at  home. 
Splendid  hotel  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain  ;  magnificent 
drawing  room ;  vulgar  people,  I  thought ;  the  walls  were 
splendidly  painted ;  "  C'est  du  Louis  Quinze  ou  du  com- 
mencement de  Louis  XVI,"  the  host  said.  Blagucur  !  the 
painting  is  about  ten  years  old,  and  is  of  the  highly  orna- 
mental Cafe  school.  It  is  a  Louis  Phillippist  house,  and 
everybody  was  in  mourning — ^for  the  dear  Queen  of  the  Bel- 
gians, I  suppose.  The  men  as  they  arrived  went  up  and 
made  their  bows  to  the  lady  of  the  house,  who  sat  by  the  fire 
talking  to  other  two  ladies,  and  this  bow  over,  the  gentlemen 
talked,  standing,  to  each  other.  It  was  uncommonly  stupid. 
Then  we  went  off  to  Lady  Sandwich's  ball.  I  had  wrote  a 
note  to  her  ladyship  in  the  morning,  and  received  a  Kyind  in- 
vitation. Everybody  was  there,  Thiers,  Mole,  and  the  French 
Sosoiatee,  and  lots  of  English  ;  the  Castlereaghs,  very  kind 
and  hearty,  my  lady  looking  very  pretty,  and  Cas — (mark  the 
easy  grace  of  Cas) — well,  and  clear-sighted  ;  Lord  Normanby 
and  wife,  exceeding  gracious  ; — Lady  Waldegrave  ; — all  sorts 

*  The  late  Lord  Chief  Baron  was  the  father  of  thirty-two  children. 


Io8  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

of  world,  and  if  I  want  the  reign  of  pleasure,  it  is  here,  it  is 
here,  Gudin  the  painter  asked  me  to  dine  today  and  meet 
Dumas,  which  will  be  amusing  I  hope. 

And  I  forgot  to  say  that  Mr.  Thomas  Fraser  says,  that 
Mr.  Inspector  Brookfield  is  the  most  delightful  fellow  he 
ever  met.  I  went  to  see  my  aunt  besides  all  this,  and  the 
evening  and  the  morning  was  the  first  day. 

Sunday  morning.  I  passed  the  morning  yesterday  writ- 
ing the  scene  of  a  play,  so  witty  and  diabolical  that  I  shall 
be  curious  to  know  if  it  is  good ;  and  went  to  the  pictures 
again,  and  afterwards  to  Lady  Castlereagh  and  other  polite 
persons,  finishing  the  afternoon  dutifully  at  home,  and  with 
my  aunt  and  cousins,  whom  you  would  like.  At  dinner  at 
Gudin's  there  was  a  great  stupid  company,  and  I  sat  between 
one  of  the  stupidest  and  handsomest  women  I  ever  saw  in 
my  life,  and  a  lady  to  whom  I  made  three  observations  which 
she  answered  with  Oui,  Monsieur,  and  non,  monsieur,  and 
then  commenced  a  conversation  over  my  back  with  my  hand- 
some neighbour.  If  this  is  French  manners,  says  I,  Civility 
be  hanged,  and  so  I  ate  my  dinner  ;  and  did  not  say  one 
word  more  to  that  woman. 

But  there  were  some  pleasant  people  in  spite  of  her  :  a 
painter  (portrait)  with  a  leonine  mane,  Mr.  Gigoux,  that  I 
took  a  liking  to  ;  an  old  general,  jolly  and  gentlemanlike ; 
a  humorous  Prince,  agreeable  and  easy  :  and  a  wonderful  old 
buck,  who  was  my  pleasure.  The  party  disported  them- 
selves until  pretty  late,  and  we  went  up  into  a  tower  fitted 
up  in  the  Arabian  fashion  and  there  smoked,  which  did  not 
diminish  the  pleasure  of  the  evening.  Mrs.  L.  the  engineer's 
wife,  brought  me  home  in  her  brougham,  the  great  engineer 
sitting  bodkin  and  his  wife  scolding  me  amiably,  about  Laura 
and  Pendennis.  A  handsome  woman  this  Mrs  L.  must  have 
been  when  her  engineer  married  her,  but  not  quite  up  to 
her  present  aggrandized  fortune 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  IC9 

My  old  folks  were  happy  in  their  quarter,  and  good  old 
G.  P.  bears  the  bore  of  the  children  constantly  in  his  room, 
with  great  good  humour.  But  ah,  somehow  it  is  a  dismal 
end  to  a  career.  A  famous  beauty  and  a  soldier  who  has 
been  in  twenty  battles  and  led  a  half  dozen  of  storming  par- 
ties !  Here  comes  Jeames  to  say  that  the  letters  must  this 
instant  go  ;  and  so  God  bless  you  and  your  husband  and  lit- 
tle maiden,  and  write  soon,  my  dear  kind  lady,  to 

W.  M.  T. 


{Paris,  1850] 

I  send  this  scrap  by  a  newspaper  correspondent,  just  to 
say  I  am  very  well  and  so  awfully  hard  at  business  I  have  no 
time  for  more. 


Wednesday. 
Madam  and  Dear  Lady  : 

If  I  have  no  better  news  to  send  you  than  this,  pray  don't 
mind,  but  keep  the  enclosures  safe  for  me  against  I  come 
back,  which  won't  be  many  days  now,  please  God.  I  had 
thought  of  setting  off  tomorrow,  but  as  I  have  got  into  work- 
ing trim,  I  think  I  had  best  stop  here  and  do  a  great  bit  of 
my  number,  before  I  unsettle  myself  by  another  journey.  I 
have  been  to  no  gaieties,  for  I  have  been  laid  up  with  a  violent 
cold  and  cough,  which  kept  me  in  my  rooms,  too  stupid  even 
to  write.  But  these  ills  have  cleared  away  pretty  well  now, 
and  I  am  bent  upon  going  out  to  dinner  au  cabaret,  and  to 
some  fun  afterwards,  I  don't  know  where,  nor  scarce  what  I 
write,  I  am  so  tired.  I  wonder  what  will  happen  with  Pen- 
dennis  and  Fanny  Bolton  ;  writing  it  and  sending  it  to  you, 
somehow   it   seems   as   if  it  were  true.      I  shall  know  more 


no  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

about  them  tomorrow ;  but  mind,  mind  and  keep  the  manu- 
script ;  you  see  it  is  five  pages,  fifteen  pounds,  by  the  immor- 
tal Gods ! 

I  am  asked  to  a  marriage  tomorrow,  a  young  Foker,  of 
twenty-two,  with  a  lady  here,  a  widow,  and  once  a  runaway. 

The  pen  drops  out  of  my  hand,  it's  so  tired,  but  as  the 
ambassador's  bag  goes  for  nothing,  I  like  to  say  how  do  you 
do,  and  remember  me  to  Miss  Brookfield,  and  shake  hands 
with  William.      God  bless  you  all. 

This  note  which  was  to  have  gone  away  yesterday,  was 
too  late  for  the  bag,  and  I  was  at  work  too  late  today  to 
write  a  word  for  anything  but  Pendennis :  I  hope  I  shall 
bring  a  great  part  of  it  home  with  me  at  the  end  of  the  week, 
in  the  meantime  don't  put  you  to  the  trouble  of  the  manu- 
script, which  you  see  I  was  only  sending  because  I  had  no 
news  and  no  other  signs  of  life  to  give.  I  have  been  out  to 
the  play  tonight,  and  laughed  very  pleasantly  at  nonsense 
until  now,  when  I  am  come  home  very  tired  and  sleepy,  and 
write  just  one  word  to  say  good-night 

They  say  there  is  to  be  another  revolution  here  very  soon, 
but  I  shall  be  across  the  water  before  that  event,  and  my  old 
folks  will  be  here  instead.  You  must  please  to  tell  Mrs. 
Fanshawe  that  I  am  over  head  and  ears  in  work,  and  that  I 
beg  you  to  kiss  the  tips  of  her  gloves  for  me.  There  is  an- 
other letter  for  you  begun  somewhere,  about  the  premises, 
but  it  was  written  in  so  gloomy  and  egotistical  a  strain,  that 
it  was  best  burnt.  I  burnt  another  yesterday,  written  to 
Lady  Ashburton,  because  it  was  too  pert,  and  like  Major 
Pendennis,  talking  only  about  lords  and  great  people,  in  an 
easy  off  hand  way.  I  think  I  only  write  naturally  to  one  per- 
son now,  and  make  points  and  compose  sentences  to  others. 
That  is  why  you  must  be  patient  please,  and  let  me  go  on 
twaddling  and  boring  you. 


V  rv^  Iw  u    Ic-u-H,  V^*^'   ^  ^^'*1  ^**   '|r..t^^  ^a.  Uv<t^  ^\l^\  c^ 


Imul,  W.vMi^\  dci^  (trA.a  Mil  lut.  »^u  UHq  lu^^tctt  .-j^  L({mvt.('t<^  ^^44^ 


^u^>  I  UtA-i  ^  ^^;(^  ]c*v.^  (<.Ht^<a^  <ii  Hu  lM>t  f^A^^^  «<^.  J 


f-U^ru.^^-HI    f^i^lh^    Vuf^EuU   UXH^Ui  ViJU'ihi    ^AU^tltir \^tn<^f  0{  Un^ 

«^4tv4  JiA  AiA  irtuA  (j^-  rt</»«.  Vu*u<t  _  auJL  hirii  lh£e<4  <iCt  <j«^c^H|  *^*<»y  *[«^ 

UL  t  d«ruU  Icit-  iw  UMi^  .  t  .^fti<^  ,  Ata  *ut^  rditu,  t  Jut  t«^Au4€  I 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  Ill 


\Paris,    1850.] 

Mv  DEAR  Lady  : 

Do  you  see  how  mad  everybody  is  in  the  world  ?  or  is  it 
not  my  own  insanity  ?  Yesterday  when  it  became  time  to 
shut  up  my  letter,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  about  my  elders, 
who  have  got  hold  of  a  mad  old  Indian  woman,  who  calls 
herself  Aline  Gultave  d'origine  Mogole,  who  is  stark  staring 
mad,  and  sees  visions,  works  miracles,  que  sais-je  f  The  old 
fool  is  mad  of  sheer  vanity,  and  yet  fool  as  she  is,  my  people 
actually  believe  in  her,  and  I  believe  the  old  gentleman  goes 
to  her  every  day.  To-day  I  went  to  see  D'Orsay,  who  has 
made  a  bust  of  Lamartine,  who,  too,  is  mad  with  vanity.  He 
has  written  some  verses  on  his  bust,  and  asks.  Who  is  this  ? 
Is  it  a  warrior  ?  Is  it  a  hero  ?  Is  it  a  priest  ?  Is  it  a  sage  ? 
Is  it  a  tribune  of  the  people  ?  Is  it  an  Adonis  ?  meaning  that 
he  is  all  these  things, — verses  so  fatuous  and  crazy  I  never 
saw.  Well,  D'Orsay  says  they  are  the  finest  verses  that  ever 
were  written,  and  imparts  to  me  a  translation  which  Miss 
Power  has  made  of  them;  and  D'Orsay  believes  in  his  mad 
rubbish  of  a  statue,  which  he  didn't  make  ;  believes  in  it  in 
the  mad  way  that  madmen  do, — that  it  is  divine,  and  that  he 
made  it ;  only  as  you  look  in  his  eyes,  you  see  that  he  doesn't 
quite  believe,  and  when  pressed  hesitates,  and  turns  away 
with  a  howl  of  rage.  D'Orsay  has  fitted  himself  up  a  charm- 
ing atelier  with  arms  and  trophies,  pictures  and  looking- 
glasses,  the  tomb  of  Blessington,  the  sword  and  star  of  Na- 
poleon, and  a  crucifix  over  his  bed  ;  and  here  he  dwells  with- 
out any  doubts  or  remorses,  admiring  himself  in  the  most  hor- 
rible pictures  which  he  has  painted,  and  the  statues  which  he 
gets  done  for  him.  I  had  been  at  work  till  two,  all  day  be- 
fore going  to  see  him ;  and  thence  went  to  Lady  Normanby, 


112  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY, 

who  was  very  pleasant  and  talkative ;  and  then  tramping 
upon  a  half  dozen  of  visits  of  duty.  I  had  refused  proffered 
banquets  in  order  to  dine  at  home,  but  when  I  got  home  at 
the  dinner  hour,  everybody  was  away,  the  bonne  was  ill  and 
oblio-ed  to  go  to  the  country,  and  parents  and  children  were 
away  to  dine  with  a  Mrs.  ...  a  good  woman  who  writes 
books,  keeps  a  select  boarding-house  for  young  ladies  who 
wish  to  see  Parisian  society,  and  whom  I  like,  but  cannot 
bear,  because  she  has  the  organ  of  admiration  too  strongly. 
Papa  was  king,  mamma  was  queen,  in  this  company,  I  a  sort 
of  foreign  emperor  with  the  princesses  my  daughters.  By 
Jove,  it  was  intolerably  painful ;  and  I  must  go  to  her  soiree 
to-morrow  night  too,  and  drag  about  in  this  confounded  little 
Pedlington.  Yesterday  night, — I  am  afraid  it  was  the  first 
day  of  the  week, — I  dined  with  Morton,  and  met  no  less  than 
four  tables  of  English  I  knew,  and  went  to  the  play. 
There  was  a  little  girl  acting,  who  made  one's  heart  ache  ; 
— the  joke  of  the  piece  is,  the  child,  who  looks  about  three, 
is  taken  by  the  servants  to  a  casino,  is  carried  off  for  an  hour 
by  some  dragoons,  and  comes  back,  having  learned  to  smoke, 
to  dance  slang  dances,  and  sing  slang  songs.  Poor  little 
rogue,  she  sung  one  of  her  songs,  from  an  actor's  arms ;  a 
wicked  song,  in  a  sweet  little  innocent  voice.  She  will  be 
bought  and  sold  within  three  years  from  this  time,  and  won't 
be  playing  at  wickedness  any  more.  I  shall  shut  up  my  desk 
and  say  God  bless  all  the  little  girls  that  you  and  I  love,  and 
their  parents.      God  bless  you,  dear  lady. 

I  have  got  a  very  amusing  book,  the  Tatter  newspaper 
of  1709  ;  and  that  shall  be  my  soporific  I  hope.  I  have  been 
advancing  in  Blue  Beard,  but  must  give  it  up,  it  is  too  dread- 
fully cynical  and  wicked.  It  is  in  blank  verse  and  all  a  dia- 
bolical sneer.     Depend  upon  it.  Helps  is  right. 

Wednesday.  If  I  didn't  write  yesterday  it  was  because  I 
was  wickedly  employed.      I  was  gambling  until  two  o'clock 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 13 

this  morning,  playing  a  game  called  lansquenet  which  is  very 
good  gambling ;  and  I  left  off,  as  I  had  begun,  very  thank- 
ful not  to  carry  away  any  body's  money  or  leave  behind  any 
of  my  own  ;  but  it  was  curious  to  watch  the  tempers  of  the 
various  players,  the  meanness  of  one,  the  flurry  and  excite- 
ment of  another,  the  difference  of  the  same  man  winning  and 
losing ;  all  which  I  got,  besides  a  good  dinner  and  a  head- 
ache this  morning.  Annie  and  Minnie  and  my  mother,  came 
to  see  me  yesterday.  I  don't  think  they  will  be  so  very 
eager  for  Paris  after  three  weeks  here  ;  the  simple  habits  of 
our  old  people  will  hardly  suit  the  little  women.  Even  in 
my  absence  in  America,  I  don't  quite  like  leaving  them  al- 
together here  ;  I  wonder  if  an  amiable  family,  as  is  very  kind 
to  me,  will  give  them  hospitality  for  a  month  ?  I  was  writ- 
ing Blue  Beard  all  day  ;  very  sardonic  and  amusing  to  do, 
but  I  doubt  whether  it  will  be  pleasant  to  read  or  hear,  or 
even  whether  it  is  right  to  go  on  with  this  wicked  vein  ;  and 
also,  I  must  tell  you  that  a  story  is  biling  up  in  my  interior, 
in  which  there  shall  appear  some  very  good,  lofty  and  gener- 
ous people  ;  perhaps  a  story  without  any  villains  in  it  would 
be  good,  wouldn't  it? 

Thursday. — Thanks  for  your  letter  madame.  If  I  tell 
you  my  plans  and  my  small  gossip,  I  don't  bore  you  do  1 1 
You  listen  to  them  so  kindly  at  home,  that  I've  got  the 
habit,  you  see.  Why  don't  you  write  a  little  handwriting, 
and  send  me  yours  ?  This  place  begins  to  be  as  bad  as 
London  in  the  season ;  there  are  dinners  and  routs  for  every 
day  and  night.  Last  night  I  went  to  dine  at  home,  with 
bouilli  boeuf  dj\d  ordiiiaire,  and  bad  ordinaire  too;  but  the 
dinner  was  just  as  good  as  a  better  one,  and  afterwards  I 
went  with  my  mother  to  a  soirde,  where  I  had  to  face  fifty 
people  of  whom  I  didn't  know  one ;  and  being  there,  was 
introduced  to  other  soiree  givers,  be  hanged  to  them.  And 
there  I  left   my  ma,   and   went  off  to  Madame  Gudin's  the 


114  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  i 

painter's  wife,  where  really  there  was  a  beautiful  ball  ;  and  all 
the  world,  all  the  English  world  that  is ;  and  to-night  it  is 
the  President's  ball,  if  you  please,  and  tomorrow,  and  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  more  gaieties.  It  was  queer  to  see 
poor  old  Castlereagh  in  a  dark  room,  keeping  aloof  from  the 
dancing  and  the  gaiety,  and  having  his  thoughts  fixed  on  king- 
dom come,  and  Bennett  confessor  and  martyr  ;  while  Lady 
Castlereagh,  who  led  him  into  his  devotional  state,  was  en- 
joying the  music  and  the  gay  company,  as  cheerfully  as  the 
most  mundane  person  present.  The  French  people  all  talk 
to  me  about  Po7iche,  when  I  am  introduced  to  them,  which 
wounds  my  vanity,  which  is  wholesome  very  likely.  Among 
the  notabilities  was  Vicomte  D'Arlincourt,  a  mad  old  romance 
writer,  on  whom  I  amused  myself  by  pouring  the  most  tre- 
mendous compliments  I  could  invent.  He  said,  j'ai  vu 
r Ecosse  '  mais  Valter  Scott  71  y  efait  plus,  helas !  I  said, 
vous  y  dtiez,  Vicomte,  cetait  bien  assez  d'un — on  which  the 
old  boy  said  I  possessed  French  admirably,  and  knew  to 
speak  the  prettiest  things  in  the  prettiest  manner.  I  wish 
you  could  see  him,  I  wish  you  could  see  the  world  here.  I 
wish  you  and  Mr.  were  coming  to  the  play  with  me  tonight, 
to  a  regular  melodrama,  far  away  on  the  Boulevard,  and  a 
quiet  little  snug  dinner  au  Banquet  cV Anacrdon.  The  Ba7i- 
quet  (T Anacreon  is  a  dingy  little  restaurant  on  the  boulevard 
where  all  the  plays  are  acted,  and  they  tell  great  things  of 
a  piece  called  Paillasse  in  which  Le  Maitre  performs ;  nous 
verrons,  Madame,  notes  verrons.  But  with  all  this  racket  and 
gaiety,  do  you  understand  that  a  gentleman  feels  very  lonely  ? 
I  swear  I  had  sooner  have  a  pipe  and  a  gin  and  water  soiree 
with  somebody,  than  the  best  President's  orgeat.  I  go  to 
my  cousins  for  half  an  hour  almost  every  day  ;  you'd  like 
them  better  than  poor  Mary  whom  you  won't  be  able  to  stand, 
at  least  if  she  talk  to  you  about  her  bodily  state  as  she  talks 
to  me.     What  else  shall  I  say  in  this  stupid  letter  ?     I've  not 


^-^  j^Uu.  ^j,L{,4u, 


[Drawing  by  Thackeray  in   Mrs.  Brookfield's  possession  (perhaps   Lady  Castlereagh  ?).] 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  II5 

seen  any  children  as  pretty  as  Magdalene,  that's  all.  I  have 
told  Annie  to  write  to  you  and  I  am  glad  Mrs.  Fan  is  going 
to  stay  ;  and  I  hear  that  several  papers  have  reproduced  the 
thunder  and  small  beer  articles  ;  *  and  I  thank  you  for  your 
letter  ;  and  pray  the  best  prayers  I  am  worth  for  you,  and 
your  husband,  and  child,  my  dear  lady. 

W.  M.  T. 


Tuesday  \22ird  Ap7'il  1850] 

Your  Sunday's  letter  only  came  in  this  morning,  I  am 
sorry  to  see  my  dear  lady  writes  tristely,  but  I  would  rather 
you  would  write  sorrowfully  if  you  feel  so  than  sham  gaiety 
or  light-heartedness.  What's  the  good  of  a  brother  to  you, 
if  you  can't  tell  him  things  ?  If  I  am  dismal  don't  I  give  you 
the  benefit  of  the  dumps  ?  Ah  !  I  should  like  to  be  with  you 
for  an  hour  or  two  and  see  if  you  are  changed  and  oldened, 
in  this  immense  time  that  you  have  been  away.  But  busi- 
ness and  pleasure  keep  me  here  nailed.  I  have  an  awful 
week  of  festivities  before  me  ;  today  Shakespeare's  birthday 
at  the  Garrick  Club,  dinner  and  speech.  Lunch,  Madame 
Lionel  Rothschild's  ;  ball.  Lady  Waldegrave's  ;  she  gives  the 
finest  balls  in  London,  and  I  have  never  seen  one  yet.  To- 
morrow, of  five  invitations  to  dinner,  the  first  is  Mr.  Marshall, 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  evening  party,  Lady  Emily  Dun- 
das'  ditto.  Thursday,  Sir  Anthony  Rothschild.  Friday,  the 
domestic  affections.  Saturday,  Sir  Robert  Peel.  Sunday, 
Lord  Lansdowne's.  Isn't  it  curious  to  think — it  was  strik- 
ing my  great  mind  yesterday,  as  Annie  was  sorting  the  cards 
in  the  chimney-glass, — that  there  are  people  who  would  give 
their  ears,  or  half  their  income  to  go  to  these  fine  places  ? 
I  was  riding  with  an  Old  Bailey  barrister,  yesterday  in  the 

*  Thackeray's  reply  to  a  criticism  in  the  Times. 


Il6  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

Park,  and  his  pretty  wife  {on  les aiment  jolies,  Madame).  He 
apologised  for  knowing  people  who  lived  in  Brunswick  Square, 
and  thought  to  prove  his  gentility  by  calling  it  that  demned 
place. 

The  good  dinner  on  Friday  was  very  pleasant  and  quiet 
with  old  acquaintances,  the  ladies,  M.  P.'s  wives,  took  me 
aside  and  asked  confidentially  about  the  fashionable  world 
in  which  it  is  supposed,  I  believe,  that  I  live  entirely  now  ; 
and  the  wonder  is  that  people  don't  hate  me  more  than  they 
do.  I  tried  to  explain  that  I  was  still  a  man,  and  that  among 
the  ladies  of  fashion,  a  lady  could  but  be  a  lady,  and  no  bet- 
ter nor  no  worsen  Are  there  any  better  ladies  than  you  and 
Pincushion  ?  Annie  has  found  out  that  quality  in  the  two  of 
you,  with  her  generous  instincts.  I  had  a  delightful  morning 
with  her  on  Sunday,  when  she  read  me  the  Deserted  Village, 
and  we  talked  about  it.  I  couldn't  have  talked  with  her  so, 
with  anybody  else,  except  perhaps  you,  in  the  room.  Satur- 
day !  what  did  I  do  ?  I  went  to  Punch  and  afterwards  to  a 
play,  to  see  a  piece  of  the  Lady  of  Lyons  performed,  by  a 
Mr.  Anderson.  Before  that  to  the  Water-Colour  Society, 
which  was  choke-full  of  bishops  and  other  big-wigs,  and 
among  them  Sir  Robert  Peel  elaborately  gracious, — conver- 
sation with  Lady  Peel,  about  2000  people  looking  on.  Bows, 
grins,  grimaces  on  both  sides,  followed  by  an  invitation  to 
dinner  next  Saturday.  The  next  person  I  shook  hands 
with  after  Sir  Robert  Peel,  was — who  do  you  think  ?  Mrs. 
Rhodes  of  the  Back  Kitchen  ;  I  thought  of  you  that  very 
instant,  and  to  think  of  you,  dear  lady,  is  to  bless  you. 


After,  in  going  home  from  the  Berrys,  where  was  a  great 
assembly  of  polite  persons,  Lady  Morley,  whom  you  love,  (we 
laughed  and  cracked  away  so  that  it  would  have  made  you 
angry)  my  dear  Elliot,   and  Perry,   Lord  Lansdowne,   Car- 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  II7 

lyle,  ever  so  many  more.  Oh !  stop,  at  the  Water  Colours 
on  Saturday,  Mr.  Hallam  asked  me  to  dinner.  He  and  Lord 
Mohun  and  Miss  JuHa  went  and  admired  a  picture,  O  !  such 
a  spoony  picture.  Sunday  I  went  to  Hampstead  with  the 
infants,  and  dined  at  the  Crowes'  ;  I  went  to  Higgins',  a  very 
pleasant  little  party;  sorry  his  reverence  could  not  come. 
And  then,  which  is  I  believe  Monday,  I  was  alarmed  at  not 
getting-  my  manuscript  back  ;  I  drew  wood  blocks  all  day, 
rode  in  the  Park  for  three  hours  without  callinof  or  visitingf 
anywhere  ;  came  home  to  dinner,  went  to  the  Berrys's  and 
am  back  again  at  twelve,  to  say  G.  B.  Y. 


[1850] 
Cambridge. 

Madam  : 

I  have  only  had  one  opportunity  of  saying  how  do  you  do 
to-day,  on  the  envelope  of  a  letter  which  you  will  have  re- 
ceived from  another,  and  even  more  intimate  friend  W.  H.  B. 
This  is  to  inform  you  that  I  am  so  utterly  and  dreadfully  mis- 
erable now  he  has  just  gone  off  at  one  o'clock  to  Norwich 
by  the  horrid  mail,  that  I  think  I  can't  bear  this  place  beyond 
tomorrow  and  must  come  back  again. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  breakfast  at  Dr.  Henry  Maine's 
and  two  well-bred  young  gents  of  the  University,  and  broiled 
fowls  and  mushrooms,  just  as  we  remember  them  200  years 
ago.     .     .     . 

I  have  had  the  meanness  not  to  take  a  private  room  and 
write  in  consequence  in  the  Coffee  Apartment  in  a  great 
state  of  disquiet.  Young  under-graduates  are  eating  supper, 
chattering  is  going  on  incessantly.  I  wonder  whether  Will- 
iam is  safe  in  the  train,  or  will  he  come  back  in  two  minutes, 


Il8  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

too  late  for  the  conveyance.  Yes,  here  he  comes  actually 
— no,  it  is  only  the  waiter  with  a  fresh  supply  of  bitter  beer 
for  the  young  gents.  Well,  we  brexfested  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Maine,  and  I  thought  him  a  most  kind,  gentle,  and  lovable 
sort  of  man,  so  to  speak,  and  liked  her  artlessness  and  sim- 
plicity. (Note  that  this  is  the  same  horrid  ink  of  last  night, 
which  will  blot.)  and  then  we  went  to  fetch  walks  over 
the  ground,  forgotten,  and  yet  somehow  well  remembered. 
William  says  he  is  going  to  bring  you  down  here,  and  you 
will  like  it  and  be  very  happy. 

Just  now  William,  I  was  going  to  write  Villiamy  but  I 
knew  you  wouldn't  like  it,  says,  "  She  is  dining  at  Lady 
Monteagle's,"  so  I  said  "  Let  us  drink  her  health,"  and  we 
did,  in  a  mixture  of  ale  and  soda  water,  very  good.  There 
was  a  bagman  asleep  in  the  room,  and  we  drank  your  health, 
and  both  of  us  said,  "God  bless  her,"  I  think  this  is  the  chief 
part  of  my  transactions  during  the  day.  ...  I  think  I 
said  we  walked  about  in  haunts  once  familiar.  We  went  to 
the  Union  where  we  read  the  papers,  then  drove  to  the  river 
where  we  saw  the  young  fellows  in  the  boats,  then  amidst 
the  College  groves  and  cetera,  and  peeped  into  various  courts 
and  halls,  and  were  not  unamused,  but  bitterly  melancholious, 
though  I  must  say  William  complimented  me  on  my  healthy 
appearance,  and  he  for  his  part,  looked  uncommonly  well. 

I  went  then  to  see  my  relations,  old  Dr.  Thackeray  75 
years  of  age,  perfectly  healthy,  handsome,  stupid  and  happy, 
and  he  isn't  a  bit  changed  in  twenty  years,  nor  is  his  wife, 
strange  to  say.  I  told  him  he  looked  like  my  grandfather, 
his  uncle,  on  which  he  said,  "  Your  grandfather  was  by  no 
means  the  handsomest  of  the  Thackerays,"  and  so  I  suppose 
he  prides  himself  on  his  personal  beauty.  At  four,  we  went 
to  dine  with  Don  Thompson  in  Hall,  where  the  thing  to  me 
most  striking  was  the if  you  please,  the  smell  of  the  din- 
ner, exactly  like  what  I  remember  afore-time.    Savoury  odours 


THE    STATUETTE   OF   THACKERAY    BY   JOSEPH    EDGAR    BOEHM,    R.A, 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 19 

of  youth  borne  across  I  don't  know  what  streams  and  deserts, 
struggles,  passions,  poverties,  hopes,  hopeless  loves  and  use- 
less loves  of  twenty  years  !  There  is  a  sentiment  suddenly 
worked  out  of  a  number  of  veal  and  mutton  joints,  which 
surprises  me  just  as  much  as  it  astonishes  you,  but  the 
best  or  worst  of  being  used  to  the  pen  is,  that  one  chatters 
with  it  as  with  the  tongue  to  certain  persons,  and  all  things 
blurt  out  for  good  or  for  bad.  You  know  how  to  take 
the  good  parts  generously  and  to  forget  the  bad,  dear 
kind  lady. 

Then  we  went  to  Jenny  Lind's  concert,  for  which  a  gen- 
tleman here  gave  us  tickets,  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  act 
we  agreed  to  come  away.  It  struck  me  as  atrociously  stupid. 
I  was  thinking  of  something  else  the  whole  time  she  was  ju- 
gulating away,  and  O  !  I  was  so  glad  to  get  to  the  end  and 
have  a  cigar,  and  I  wanted  so  to  go  away  with  Mr.  Williams, 
for  I  feel  entirely  out  of  place  in  this  town.  This  seems  to  me 
to  be  spoken  all  in  a  breath,  and  has  been  written  without 
a  full  stop.  Does  it  not  strike  you  as  entirely  frantic  and 
queer  ?     Well,  I  wish  I  were  back. 

I  am  going  out  to  breakfast  to  see  some  of  the  gallant 
young  blades  of  the  University,  and  tonight,  if  I  last  until 
then,  to  the  Union  to  hear  a  debate.  What  a  queer  thing  it 
is.  I  think  William  is  a  little  disappointed  that  I  have  not 
been  made  enough  a  lion  of,  whereas  my  timid  nature  trem- 
bles before  such  honours,  and  my  vanity  would  be  to  go 
through  life  as  a  gentleman — as  a  Major  Pendennis — you 
have  hit  it.  I  believe  I  never  do  think  about  my  public  char- 
acter, and  certainly  didn't  see  the  gyps,  waiters  and  under- 
graduates whispering  in  hall,  as  your  William  did,  or  thought 
he  did.  He  was  quite  happy  in  some  dreary  rooms  in  Col- 
lege, where  I  should  have  perished  of  etuiui, — thus  are  we 
constituted.  An  old  hook-nosed  clergyman  has  just  come 
into   the   Coffee-room,    and   is   looking  over  my  shoulder  I 


I20  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

think,  and  has  put  a  stop  to  the  sentence  beginning  "  thus 
are  we  constituted  &c. 

Jenny  Lind  made  ^400  by  her  concert  last  night  and  has 
given  ^100  to  the  hospital.  This  seems  rather  pompous 
sort  of  piety,  it  would  be  better  to  charge  people  less  than 
31/6  for  tickets,  and  omit  the  charity  to  the  poor.  But  you 
see  people  are  never  satisfied  (the  hook-nosed  clergyman  has 
just  addressed  a  remark)  only  I  pitied  my  cousins  the  Miss 
Thackerays  last  night,  who  were  longing  to  go  and  couldn't, 
because  tickets  for  four  or  five  of  them  in  the  second  rows, 
would  have  cost  as  many  guineas,  and  their  father  could  not 
afford  any  such  sum.  .  .  .  Present  my  best  compliments 
to  Mrs.  Fanshawe.  If  you  see  Mrs.  Elliot  remember  me  to 
her  most  kindly,  and  now  to  breakfast. 


Written  to  us,  when  we  were  at  Cambridge.      [1850.] 

Wednesday,  Midnight. 

I  have  made  an  awful  smash  at  the  Literary  Fund  and 
have  tumbled  into  'Evins  knows  where  ; — It  was  a  tremen- 
dous exhibition  of  imbecility.  Good  night.  I  hope  you  2 
are  sound  asleep.  Why  isn't  there  somebody  that  I  could 
go  and  smoke  a  pipe  to  ? 

Bon  Soir 

But  O  !  what  a  smash  I  have  made  ! 

I  am  talking  quite  loud  out  to  myself  at  the  Garrick  sen- 
tences I  intended  to  have  uttered :  but  they  wouldn't  come 
in  time. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  121 


After  the  fatal  night  of  the  Literary  Fund  disaster,  when 
I  came  home  to  bed  (breaking  out  into  exclamations  in  the 
cab,  and  letting  off  madly,  parts  of  the  speech  which  wouldn't 
explode  at  the  proper  time)  I  found  the  house  lighted  up, 
and  the  poor  old  mother  waiting  to  hear  the  result  of  the 
day. — So  I  told  her  that  I  was  utterly  beaten  and  had  made 
a  fool  of  myself,  upon  which  with  a  sort  of  cry  she  said  "  No 
you  didn't,  old  man," — and  it  appears  that  she  had  been 
behind  a  pillar  in  the  gallery  all  the  time  and  heard  the 
speeches  ;  and  as  for  mine  she  thinks  it  was  beautiful.  So 
you  see,  if  there's  no  pleasing  everybody,  yet  some  people 
are  easily  enough  satisfied.  The  children  came  down  in  the 
morning  and  told  me  about  my  beautiful  speech  which  Granny 
had  heard.  She  got  up  early  and  told  them  the  story  about 
it,  you  may  be  sure  ;  her  story,  which  is  not  the  true  one, 
but  like  what  women's  stories  are. 

I  have  a  faint  elimmerinof  notion  of  Sir  Charles  Hedo-es 
having  made  his  appearance  somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the 
speech,  but  of  what  was  said  I  haven't  the  smallest  idea.  The 
discomfiture  will  make  a  good  chapter  for  Pen.  It  is  thus 
we  m^k^  Jicc/ic  de  tout  bois :  and  I,  I  suppose  every  single 
circumstance  which  occurs  to  pain  or  please  me  henceforth, 
will  go  into  print  somehow  or  the  other,  so  take  care,  if 
you  please,  to  be  very  well  behaved  and  kind  to  me  or 
else  you  may  come  in  for  a  savage  chapter  in  the  very  next 
number. 

As  soon  as  I  rallied  from  the  abominable  headache  which 
the  Free  Masons  tavern  always  gives,  I  went  out  to  see 
ladies  who  are  quite  like  sisters  to  me,  they  are  so  kind,  lively 
and  cheerful.  Old  Lady  Morley  was  there  and  we  had  a  jolly 
lunch,  and  afterwards  one  of  these  ladies  told  me  by  whom 
she  sat  at  Lansdowne  House,  and  what  they  talked  about 


122  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

and  how  pleased,  she,  my  friend  was.  She  is  a  kind  gener- 
ous soul  and  I  love  her  sincerely. 

After  the  luncheon  (for  this  is  wrote  on  Saturday,  for  all 
yesterday  I  was  so  busy  from  nine  till  five,  when  my  horse 
was  brouofht  and  I  took  a  ride  and  it  was  too  late  for  the 

post)  I  went  to  see ,  that  friend  of  my  youth  whom    I 

used  to  think  20  years  ago  the  most  fascinating,  accom- 
plished, witty  and  delightful  of  men.      I  found  an  old  man  in 

a  room  smelling  of  brandy  and  water  at  5   o'clock  at , 

quite  the  same  man  that  I  remember,  only  grown  coarser  and 
stale  somehow,  like  a  piece  of  goods  that  has  been  hanging 
up  in  a  shop  window.  He  has  had  15  years  of  a  vulgar  wife, 
much  solitude,  very  much  brandy  and  water  I  should  think, 
and  a  depressing  profession ;  for  what  can  be  more  depress- 
ing than  a  long  course  of  hypocrisy  to  a  man  of  no  small 
sense  of  humour  ?  It  was  a  painful  meeting.  We  tried  to 
talk  unreservedly,  and  as  I  looked  at  his  face  I  remembered 
the  fellow  I  was  so  fond  of — He  asked  me  if  I  still  consorted 
with  any  Cambridge  men ;  and  so  I  mentioned  Kinglake 
and  one  Brookfield  of  whom  I  saw  a  good  deal.  He  was 
surprised  at  this,  as  he  heard  Brookfield  was  so  violent  a 
Puseyite  as  to  be  just  on  the  point  of  going  to  Rome.  He 
can't  walk,  having  paralysis  in  his  legs,  but  he  preaches  every 
Sunday,  he  says,  being  hoisted  into  his  pulpit  before  service 
and  waiting  there  whilst  his  curate  reads  down  below, 

I  think  he  has  very  likely  repented :  he  spoke  of  his 
preaching  seriously  and  without  affectation  :  perhaps  he  has 
got  to  be  sincere  at  last  after  a  long  dark  lonely  life.  He 
showed  me  his  daughter  of  15,  a  pretty  girl  with  a  shrewish 
face  and  bad  manners.  The  wife  did  not  show.  He  must 
have  been  glad  too  when  I  went  away  and  I  dare  say  is  more 
scornful  about  me  than  I  about  him.  I  used  to  worship  him 
for  about  6  months ;  and  now  he  points  a  moral  and  adorns 
a  tale  such  as  it  is  in  Pendennis.      He  lives  in  the  Duke  of 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 23 

park  at and  wanted  me  to  come  down  and  see  him, 

and  go  to  the  Abbey  he  said,  where  the  Duke  would  be  so 
glad  to  have  me. — But  I  declined  this  treat — O  fie  for  shame  ! 
How  proud  we  get !  Poor  old  Harry  !  and  this  bat- 
tered vulgar  man  was  my  idol  of  youth  !  My  dear  old  Fitz- 
gerald is  always  right  about  men,  and  said  from  the  first  that 
this  was  a  bad  one  and  a  sham.  You  see,  some  folks  have  a 
knack  of  setting  up  for  themselves  idols  to  worship. 

Don't  be  flying  off  in  one  of  your  fits  of  passion,  I  don't 
mean  you. 

Then  I  went  to  dine  at 's,  where  were  his  wife  and 

sister.  I  don't  thing  so  much  of  the  wife,  though  she  is  pretty 
and  clever — but  Becky-fied  somehow,  and  too  much  of  a  pe- 
tite maitresse.  I  suppose  a  deal  of  flattery  has  been  poured 
into  her  ears,  and  numberless  men  have  dangled  round  that 
pretty  light  little  creature.  The  sister  with  her  bright  eyes 
was  very  nice  though,  and  I  passed  an  evening  in  great  delec- 
tation till  midnight  drawing  nonsense  pictures  for  these  ladies, 
who  have  both  plenty  of  relish  for  nonsense.  Yesterday,  af- 
ter working  all  day,  and  then  going  to  the  London  Library 
to  audit  accounts — doesn't  that  sound  grand  ? — and  taking  a 
ride,  I  came  home  to  dinner,  fell  asleep  as  usual  afterwards, 
slept  for  12  hours,  and  am  now  going  to  attack  Monsieur  Pen- 
dennis.  Here  is  the  joui-nal.  Now  Ma'm  have  you  been 
amused?  Is  King's  very  fine?  is  Trinity  better?  did  you 
have  a  nice  T  at  Mrs.  Maine's  ?  When  are  you  coming  back  ? 
Lord  and  Lady  Castlereagh  came  here  yesterday,  and  I  want 
you  to  come  back,  so  that  I  may  give  them  an  entertainment ; 
— for  I  told  my  lady  that  I  wanted  to  show  her  that  other 
lady  mentioned  in  the  Punch  article  as  mending  her  husband's 
chest  of  drawers — but  I  said  waistcoat. — Sir  Bulwer  Lytton 
called  yesterday. 

To-night  I  am  going  to  the  bar  dinner,  and  shall  proba- 
bly make  another  speech. — I  don't  mind  about  failing  there, 


124  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

so  I  shall  do  pretty  well.    I  rode  by  Portman  Street  on  Thurs- 
day.    Please  to  write  and  let  me  know  whether  you'll  dine 
on  the  28th  or  the  30th,  or  can  you  give  me  both  those  days 
to  choose  from.     And  so  God  bless  both  on  you. 
(Signed  3  hands  clasped.) 


Fragment  of  a  letter 
About  1850 

I  could  not  come  yesterday  evening  to  ring  at  the  door ; 
for  I  did  not  return  until  8  o'clock  from  the  visit  to  the  emi- 
grant ship  at  Gravesend,  and  then  I  had  to  work  until  12, 
and  polish  off  Pendennis.  There  are  always  four  or  five 
hours  work  when  it  is  over,  and  four  or  five  more  would  do 
it  all  the  good  in  the  world,  and  a  second,  or  third  reading. 

That  emigrant  business  was  very  solemn  and  affecting ; 
it  was  with  difficulty  I  could  keep  my  spectacles  dry — amongst 
the  people  taking  leave,  the  families  of  grave-looking  parents 
and  unconscious  children,  and  the  bustle  and  incidents  of  de- 
parture. The  cabins  in  one  of  the  ships  had  only  just  been 
fitted  up,  and  no  sooner  done  than  a  child  was  that  instant 
born  in  one  of  them,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  old  world  as  it 
were,  which  it  leaves  for  quite  a  new  country,  home,  empire. 
You  shake  hands  with  one  or  two  of  these  people  and  pat 
the  yellow  heads  of  the  children  (there  was  a  Newcastle 
woman  with  eight  of  them,  who  interested  me  a  good  deal) 
and  say  "  God  bless  you,  shake  hands,  you  and  I  shall  never 
meet  again  in  this  world,  go  and  do  your  work  across  the 
four  months  of  ocean,  and  God  prosper  it."  The  ship  drops 
down  the  river,  it  eives  us  three  Q^reat  cheers  as  we  come 
away  in  the  steamer  with  heavy  hearts  rather.  In  three 
hours  more  Mr.  W.  M.  T.  is  hard  at  work  at  Punch  office ; 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 25 

Mr.  Parson  Ouikette  has  got  to  his  night  school  at  St. 
George's  in  the  East ;  that  beautiful  gracious  princess  of  a 
Mrs.  Herbert  is  dressing  herself  up  in  diamonds  and  rubies 
very  likely,  to  go  out  into  the  world,  or  is  she  up  stairs  in 
the  nursery,  reading  a  good  book  over  the  child's  cradle  ? 
Oh!  enormous,  various,  changing,  wonderful,  solemn  world? 
Admirable  providence  of  God  that  creates  such  an  infinitude 
of  men,  it  makes  one  very  grave,  and  full  of  love  and  awe. 
I  was  thinking  about  this  yesterday  morning  before  six,  when 
I  was  writing  the  last  paragraph  of  Pendennis  in  bed,  and  the 
sun  walked  into  the  room  and  supplied  the  last  paragraph 
with  an  allusion  about  you,  and  which  I  think  means  a  bene- 
diction upon  William,  and  your  child,  and  my  dear  lady.  God 
keep  you. 

As  I  am  waiting  to  see  Mrs.  Bullar,  I  find  an  old  review 
with  an  advertisement  in  it,  containing  a  great  part  of  an  arti- 
cle I  wrote  about  Fielding,  in  1840  in  the  Times.  Perhaps 
Madame  will  like  to  see  it,  and  Mr.  Williams.  My  wife  was 
just  sickening  at  that  moment ;  I  wrote  it  at  Margate,  where 
I  had  taken  her,  and  used  to  walk  out  three  miles  to  a  little 
bowling-green,  and  write  there  in  an  arbour — coming  home 
and  wondering  what  was  the  melancholy  oppressing  the  poor 
little  woman.  The  Times  gave  me  five  guineas  for  the  arti- 
cle. I  recollect  I  thought  it  rather  shabby  pay,  and  twelve 
days  after  it  appeared  in  the  paper,  my  poor  little  wife's  mal- 
ady showed  itself 

How  queer  it  is  to  be  carried  back  all  of  a  sudden  to  that 
time,  and  all  that  belonged  to  it,  and  read  this  article  over ; 
doesn't  the  apology  for  Fielding  read  like  an  apology  for 
somebody  else  too  ?  God  help  us,  what  a  deal  of  cares,  and 
pleasures,  and  struggles,  and  happiness  I  have  had  since  that 
day  in  the  little  sunshiny  arbour,  where,  with  scarcely  any 
money  in  my  pocket,  and  two  little  children,  (Minnie  was  a 


126  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

baby  two  months  old)  I  was  writing  this  notice  about  Fielding. 
Grief,  Love,  Fame,  if  you  like. — I  have  had  no  little  of  all 
since  then  (I  don't  mean  to  take  the  fame  for  more  than  it's 
worth,  or  brag  about  it  with  any  peculiar  elation.) 


My  dear  Madam  :  On  callinor  on  our  mutual  friend  Mrs. 
Procter,  yesterday,  she  was  polite  enough  to  offer  me  a  seat 
in  her  box  at  Drury  Lane  theatre  this  evening,  when  Her 
Majesty  honours  the  play-house  with  a  visit  for  the  benefit  of 
Mr.  Macready.  Shakespeare  is  always  amusing,  and  I  am 
told  the  aspect  of  the  beef-eaters  at  the  royal  box  is  very  im- 
posing. I  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Procter  that  I  had  myself  wit- 
nessed many  entertainments  of  this  nature,  and  did  not  very 
much  desire  to  be  present,  but  intimated  to  her  that  I  had  a 
friend  who  I  believed  was  most  anxious  to  witness  Mr.  Mac- 
ready's  performance  in  the  august prese7ice  of  the  Sovereign. 
I  mentioned  the  name  of  your  husband,  and  found  that  she 
had  already,  with  her  usual  politeness,  dispatched  a  card  to 
that  gentleman,  whom  I  shall  therefore  have  the  happiness  of 
meeting  this  evening.  But  perhaps  you  are  aware,  that  a 
chosen  few  are  admitted  behind  the  scenes  of  the  theatre, 
where,  when  the  curtain  rises,  they  appear  behind  the  pe7'- 
formers,  and  with  loyal  hearts  join  in  the  national  anthem,  at 
the  very  feet  of  their  Queen.  My  reverend  friend  has  an  ele- 
gant voice,  perhaps  he  would  like  to  lift  it  up  in  a  chorus, 
which  though  performed  in  the  temple  of  Thespis,  I  cannot 
but  consider  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  hymn.  I  send  there- 
fore a  ticket  of  which  I  beg  his  polite  acceptance,  and  am 
dear  Madam,  with  the  utmost  respect, 

Your  very  faithful  servant, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  \2J 

P.  S.  I  was  a  little  late  for  the  magnificent  entertainment 
of  my  titled  friends  Sir  William  and  Lady  Molesworth,  on 
Saturday,  and  indeed  the  first  course  had  been  removed,  when 
I  made  my  appearance.  The  banquet  was  sumptuous  in  the 
extreme,  and  the  company  of  the  most  select  order.  I  had 
the  happiness  of  sitting  next  to  Clarence  Bulbul  Esq.,  M.P., 
and  opposite  was  the  most  noble,  the  Marquis  of  Steyne. 
Fancy  my  happiness  in  the  company  of  persons  so  distin- 
guished. A  delightful  concert  followed  the  dinner,  and  the 
whole  concluded  with  a  sumptuous  supper,  nor  did  the  party 
separate  until  a  late  hour. 


Written  about  the  time  when  we  were  at  Park  Cottage  South- 
ampton 

[1850] 

As  the  Sunday  Post  is  open  again,  I  write  you  a  word 
of  good-bye — and  send  you  a  little  commission.  Please  to 
give  Dr.  Bullar's  Infirmary  30/ for  me  and  the  children, — or 
put  that  sum  into  his  money-box  at  Prospect  Place.  I  tried 
my  very  hardest  to  compose  my  mind  and  ballad  in  the  rail- 
way but  it  was  no  use.  I  start  for  Antwerp  at  9  tomorrow 
morning ;  shall  be  there  at  6  or  so  on  Monday  ;  and  sleep 
probably  at  Cologne  or  Bonn  ;  and  if  anybody  chooses  to 
write  to  me  at  Frankfort,  Poste  Restante,  I  should  get  the 
letter  I  daresay. — Shall  I  send  you  Lady  Kicklebury's  Tour? 
I  will  if  it  is  at  all  funny  or  pleasant,  but  I  doubt  if  it  will 
do  for  letters  well.  Oh  how  glum  and  dingy  the  city  looks, 
and  smoky  and  dreary  !  Yesterday  as  I  walking  in  the  woods- 
with  Mrs.  Procter  looking  at  the  columns  of  the  fir  trees,  I 
thought  of  the  pillars  here,  and  said  "This  place  is  almost. 


128  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

as  lonely  as  the  Reform  Club  in  September."  But  the  dif- 
ference to  the  feeling  mind  is  very  great  betwixt  the  two  sol- 
itudes, and  for  one  I  envy  the  birds  in  the  Hampshire  boughs 
— what  rubbish  ! 


Fragment. 

We  have  been  to  Shoolbred's  to  buy  a  gown  for  granny. 
We  have  been  to  Madame  Victorine's  to  order  new  dresses 
for  ourselves.  We  have  been  to  call  at  Mrs.  Elliot's,  Mrs. 
Prinsep's,  Lady  Rothschild's,  Mr.  H.  Hallam's,  Mrs.  James's, 
Mrs.  Pollock's,  Lady  Pollock's,  and  the  young  women  are 
gone  home,  and  I  am  expecting  Mr.  William  to  dine  here. 
I  have  ordered  such  a  nice  dinner  ;  we  are  to  go  to  the 
Sartoris'  afterwards.  Will  you  go  there  next  Friday  ?  I 
think  I  shall  go  somewhere  on  Sunday,  Monday  and  Tues- 
day, I  have  no  engagements  for  those  three  days,  isn't  it 
wonderful  ?  But  I'll  be  magnanimous  and  not  bother  my 
dear  lady's  friends. 

I  saw  Harry  Hallam,  he  and  the  faithful  Maine  were  read- 
ing hard.  Maine  wanted  me  to  fix  to  ^q>  to  his  house  on  Fri- 
day  the  4th  May,  but  I  wouldn't.  Harry  was  very  pleasant, 
jovial,  and  gracious.  He  has  been  speaking  well  of  me  to 
the  Elliots'.  The  artful  dodger,  he  knew  they  would  tell 
me  again.  What  kind  women  they  are  !  They  say  they 
had  a  very  nice  letter  from  you  ;  I  didn't  have  a  nice  let- 
ter from  you  ;  and  as  for  your  letter  to  my  mamma,  which 
I  read,  O  !  ma'am,  how  frightened  you  were  when  you  wrote 
it,  and  what  for  were  you  in  a  fright  ?  You  have  brains, 
imagination,  wit ;  how  conceited  it  is  to  be  afraid,  then. 

I  saw  my  lovely  Virginia  to-day,  she  was  as  kind  and 
merry  as  ever.  The  children  seemed  to  stare  to  hear  me 
laugh  and  talk,  I  never  do  at  home.     .     .     . 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 29 


Mr.  Inspector, 

Mr.  Kenyon  having  called  upon  me  to  fix  a  day  when  you 
may  have  the  honour  of  meeting  me  at  his  house,  I  have  pro- 
posed Christmas  Eve,  and  am  with  compliments  to  th.Q  geehrte 
Frau  Schulinspektorin 

Yours 

W.  M.  T. 


White  Lion,   Bristol, 

Monday  1850. 
My  dear  Lady  : 

With  the  gold  pen  there's  no  knowing  how  and  what  I 
write,  the  handwriting  is  quite  different  and  it  seems  as  if  one 
was  speaking  with  a  different  voice.  Fancy  a  man  stepping 
up  to  speak  to  you  on  stilts  and  trying  to  make  a  bow,  or 
paying  you  compliments  through  a  Punch's  whistle  ; — not 
that  I  ever  do  pay  you  a  compliment,  you  know,  but  I  can't 
or  I  shan't  be  able  for  a  line  or  two  to  approach  you  natu- 
rally, and  must  skate  along  over  this  shiny  paper. 

I  went  to  Clevedon  and  saw  the  last  rites  performed  for 
poor  dear  Harry. — *  I  went  from  here,  and  waited  at  Can- 
dy's till  the  time  of  the  funeral,  in  such  cold  weather  !  Candy's 
shop  was  full  of  ceaseless  customers  all  the  time — there  was  a 
little  boy  buying  candles  and  an  old  woman  with  the  toothache 
— and  at  last  the  moment  drew  nigh  and  Tinling  in  a  scarf  and 
hat-band  driving  himself  down  from  the  Court,  passed  the 
shop,  and  I  went  down  to  the  church.  It  looked  very  tranquil 
and  well  ordained,  and  I  had  half  an  hour  there  before  the 
procession  came  in  view.     Those  ceremonies  over  a  corpse — : 

*  H.  F.  Hallam  died  24th  Oct.    1850. 


130  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

the  immortal  soul  of  a  man  being  in  the  keeping  of  God,  and 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  undertakers, — always  appear  to  me 
shocking  rather  than  solemn, — and  the  horses  and  plumes 
give  me  pain. — The  awful  moment  was  when  the  dear  old 
father — the  coffin  being  lowered  into  the  vault  where  so  much 
of  his  affection  and  tenderest  love  lies  buried,  went  down  into 
the  cave  and  gave  the  coffin  a  last  kiss  ; — there  was  no  stand- 
ing that  last  most  affecting  touch  of  Nature.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Hallam  who  had  been  up-stairs  came  down  after  an  hour  or 
two  ;  and  I  was  so  sorry  that  I  had  decided  on  coming  back 
to  Bristol,  when  he  asked  me  whether  I  wasn't  going  to 
stay  ?  Why  didn't  I  ?  I  had  written  and  proposed  myself 
to  Dean  Elliot  in  the  morning  personally,  and  I  find  he  is  out 
of  town  on  returning  here  in  the  coldest  night  to  the  most 
discomfortable  inn,  writing  paper,  gold  pen.  .  .  .  Duty, 
Duty  is  the  word,  and  I  hope  and  pray  you  will  do  it  cheer- 
fully. 

Now  it  is  to  comfort  and  help  the  weak-hearted,  and  so 
may  your  comforter  and  helper  raise  you  up  when  you  fall. 
I  wonder  whether  what  I  said  to  you  yesterday  was  true  ?  I 
know  what  I  think  about  the  famous  chapter  of  St.  Paul  that 
we  heard  to-day, — -one  glory  of  the  sun,  and  another  of  the 
moon,  and  one  flesh  of  birds  and  one  offish  and  so  forth, — 
premature  definitions — yearnings  and  strivings  of  a  great 
heart  after  the  truth.  Ah  me — when  shall  we  reach  the 
truth  ?  How  can  we  with  imperfect  organs  ?  but  we  can  get 
nearer  and  nearer,  or  at  least  eliminate  falsehood. 

To-morrow  then  for  Sir  John  Cam  Hobhouse.  Write  to 
me  there,  dear  sister,  and  tell  me  you  are  cheerful  and  that 
your  baby  is  well,  and  that  you  love  your  affectionate  old 
brother.  When  will  you  see  the  children  ?  to-morrow  I  hope. 
And  now  I  will  go  to  bed  and  pray  as  best  I  can  for  you  and 
yours  and  your  nieces  and  your  faithful  old  Makepeace. 

G.  B.  Y. 


lAL    TABLETS    TO    ARTHUR    AND    HENRY    HALLAM    IN    CLEVEDON    CHURGH. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  131 


1851. 


I  have  no  news  to  give  for  these  two  days,  but  I  have 
been  busy  and  done  nothing.  Virtue  doesn't  agree  with  me 
well,  and  a  very  little  domestic  roseleaf  rumpled  puts  me  off 
my  work  for  the  day.  Yesterday  it  was,  I  forget  what ;  to- 
day it  has  been  the  same  reason  ;  and  lo  !  Saturday  cometh 
and  nothing  is  done.  .  .  .  We  have  been  to  the  Zoolog- 
ical Gardens  this  fine  day  and  amused  ourselves  in  finding 
likenesses  to  our  friends  in  many  of  the  animals.  Thank 
Evns !  both  of  the  girls  have  plenty  of  fun  and  humour; 
your's  ought  to  have,  from  both  sides  of  the  house, — and 
a  deal  of  good  besides,  if  she  do  but  possess  a  mixture  of 
William's  disposition  and  yours.  He  will  be  immensely  ten- 
der over  the  child  when  nobody's  by,  I  am  sure  of  that.  No 
father  knows  for  a  few  months  what  it  is,  but  they  learn  after- 
wards.    It  strikes  me  I  have  made  these  statements  before. 

We   had  a  dull   dinner  at  Lady- — — 's,  a  party  of 

chiefly ;  and  O  !  such  a  pretty  one,  blue  eyes,  gold  hair, 
alabaster  shoulders  and  such  a  splendid  display  of  them. 
Venables  was  there,  very  shy  and  grand-looking — how  kind 
that  man  has  always  been  to  me  ! — and  a  Mr.  Simeon  of  the 
Isle  of  Wight,  an  Oxford  man,  who  won  my  heart  by  prais- 
ing certain  parts  of  Vanity  Fair  which  people  won't  like. 
Carlyle  glowered  in  in  the  evening ;  and  a  man  who  said  a 
good  thing.  Speaking  of  a  stupid  place  at  the  sea-side, 
Sandwich  I  think,  somebody  said  "  Can't  you  have  any  fun 
there?  "  "  O  !  yes,"  Corry  said,  "but  you  must  take  it  with 
you."  A  nice  speech  I  think,  not  only  witty  but  indicating 
a  gay  cheerful  heart.  I  intend  to  try  after  that ;  we  intend 
to  try  after  that ;  and  by  action  and  so  forth  get  out  of  that 
morbid  dissatisfied  condition.  Now  I  am  going  to  dress  to 
dine  with  Lord  Holland ;  my  servant  comes  in  to  tell  me  it 


132  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

is  time.  He  is  a  capital  man,  an  attentive,  alert,  silent,  plate- 
cleaning,  intelligent  fellow ;  I  hope  we  shall  go  on  well  to- 
gether, and  that  I  shall  be  able  to  afford  him.     .     .     . 

Boz  is  capital  this  month,  some  very  neat  pretty  natural 
writing  indeed,  better  than  somebody  else's  again.  By  Jove, 
he  is  a  clever  fellow,  and  somebody  else  must  and  shall  do 
better.  Quiet,  pleasant  dinner  at  Lord  Holland's  ;  leg  of 
mutton  and  that  sort  of  thing,  home  to  bed  at  10.30,  and  to- 
morrow to  work  really  and  truly.  Let  me  hear,  please,  that, 
you  are  going  on  well  and  I  shall  go  on  all  the  better. 


April  29th,  1 85 1. 
Madam  and  dear  Lady  : 

Will  you  have  a  little  letter  to-day,  or  a  long  letter  to- 
morrow ?  for  there's  only  half  an  hour  to  post  time. — A  little 
letter  to-day  ? — I  don't  wonder  at  poets  being  selfish,  such  as 
Wordsworth  and  Alfred. — I  have  been  for  five  days  a  poet, 
and  have  thought  or  remembered  nothing  else  but  myself 
and  my  rhymes  and  my  measure.  If  somebody  had  come  to 
me  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Brookfield  has  just  had  her  arm  cut  off," 
I  should  have  gone  on  with.  Queen  of  innumerable  isles, 
tidumtidy,  tidumtidy,  and  not  stirred  from  the  chair.  The 
children  and  nobody  haven't  seen  me  except  at  night ;  and 
now  though  the  work  is  just  done,  (I  am  just  returned  from 
taking  it  to  the  Times  office)  I  hardly  see  the  paper  before 
me,  so  utterly  beat,  nervous,  bilious  and  overcome  I  feel ;  so 
you  see  you  chose  a  very  bad  day  ma'am  for  a  letter  from 
yours  very  sincerely.  If  you  were  at  Cadogan  Place  I  would 
walk  in,  I  dare  say,  say  God  bless  you,  and  then  ask  leave 
to  go  to  sleep.  Now  you  must  be  thinking  of  coming  back 
to  Pimlico  soon,  for  the  lectures  are  to  begin  on  the  15th.  I 
tried  the  great  room  at  Willis's  yesterday,  and  recited  part 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 33 

of  the  multiplication  table  to  a  waiter  at  the  opposite  end,  so 
as  to  try  the  voice.  He  said  he  could  hear  perfectly,  and  I 
daresay  he  could,  but  the  thoughts  somehow  swell  and  am- 
plify with  that  high-pitched  voice  and  elaborate  distinctness. 
As  I  perceive  how  poets  become  selfish,  I  see  how  orators 
become  humbugs  and  selfish  in  their  way  too,  absorbed  in 
that  selfish  pursuit  and  turning  of  periods.  It  is  curious  to 
take  these  dips  into  a  life  new  to  me  as  yet,  and  try  it  and 
see  how  I  like  it,  isn't  it  ?  Ah  me,  idleness  is  best ;  that  is, 
quiet  and  repose  of  mind  and  somebody  to  love  and  be  fond 
of,  and  nil  admirari  in  fine.  The  gentlemen  of  the  G.  tell 
me,  and  another  auditor  from  the  Macready  dinner,  that  my 
style  of  oratory  was  conspicuous  for  consummate  ease  and 
impudence,  I,  all  the  while  feeling  in  so  terrible  a  panic  that 
I  scarcely  knew  at  the  time  what  I  was  uttering,  and  didn't 
know  at  all  when  I  sat  down. — This  is  all  I  have  to  tell  you 
about  self,  and  ten  days  which  have  passed  away  like  a  fever. 
Why,  if  we  were  to  let  the  poetic  cock  turn,  and  run,  there's 
no  end  of  it  I  think.  Would  you  like  me  now  to  become  a 
great — fiddlededee  ?  no  more  egotisms  Mr.  M.  if  you  please. 
I  should  have  liked  to  see  your  master  on  Sunday,  but 
how  could  I  ?  and  Lord  !  I  had  such  a  headache,  and  Dicky 
Doyle  came,  and  we  went  to  Soyer's  Symposium  and  the 
Crystal  Palace  together,  where  the  great  calm  leviathan 
steam  engines  and  machines  lying  alongside  like  great  line 
of  battle  ships,  did  wonderfully  move  me  ;  and  I  think  the 
English  compartment  do  beat  the  rest  entirely,  and  that  let 
alone  our  engines,  which  be  incomparable,  our  painters,  artifi- 
cers, makers  of  busts  and  statues,  do  deserve  to  compare 
with  the  best  foreign.  This  I  am  sure  will  interest  and 
please  Miss  Brookfield  very  much.  God  bless  that  dear  lit- 
tle lady.  I  would  give  two-pence  to  hear  her  say,  "  more 
tea."  Oh,  by  the  way  can  I  have  that  young  woman  of 
whom  Rossiter  spoke  ?     Mary  goes  away  at  the  end  of  the 


134  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

week  and  a  cook  is  coming,  and  I  want  a  maid,  but  have  had 
no  leisure  to  think  of  one  until  now,  when  my  natural  affairs 
and  affections  are  beginning  to  return  to  my  mind,  and  when 
I  am  my  dear  lady's  friend  and  servant, 

W.  M.  T. 


May,  1851. 
Amie  : 

I  write  you  a  little  word  after  that  Exhibition  from 
home.  .  ...... 

The  ode  has  had  a  great  success.  What  do  you  mean 
by  "  an  ode  as  she  calls  it  ? "  Vive  dieti,  Madame,  it  is 
either  an  ode  or  nix  (the  German  for  nothing.)  And  as 
for  the  Exhibition,  which  don't  interest  me  at  all  so  much,  it 
was  a  noble,  awful,  great  love-inspiring,  gooseflesh-bringing 
sight.  I  got  a  good  place  by  good  luck  and  saw  the  whole 
affair,  of  which  no  particular  item  is  wonderful  ;  but  the  gen- 
eral effect,  the  multitude,  the  riches,  the  peace,  the  splen- 
dour, the  security,  the  sunshine,  great  to  see, — much  grander 
than  a  coronation.  The  vastest  and  sublimest  popular  festi- 
val that  the  world  has  ever  witnessed  before.  What  can  one 
say  about  it  but  commonplace  ?  There  was  a  Chinese  with 
a  face  like  a  pantomime-mask  and  shoes,  who  went  up  and 
kissed  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  much  to  the  old  boy's  sur- 
prise. 

And  the  Queen  looked  not  uninteresting  ;  and  Prince  Al- 
bert grave,  handsome,  and  princely  ;  and  the  Prince  of  Wales 
and  the  Princess  Royal  are  nice  children, — very  eager  to  talk 
and  observe  they  seemed.  And  while  the  Archbishop  was 
saying  his  prayer,  beginning  with  Pater  Nosier,  which 
sounded,  in  that  wonderful  throng,  inexpressibly  sweet  and 
awful,  three  Romish  Priests  were  staring  about  them,  with 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 35 

opera  glasses ;    which  made  me  feel  as  angry  as  the  Jews 
who  stoned  Stephen. 

I  think  this  is  all  I  have  to  say.  I  am  very  tired  and  the 
day  not  over,  for  I  have  promised  the  children  to  take  them 
to  the  play,  in  recompense  for  their  disappointment  in  not 
getting  to  the  Exhibition,  which  they  had  hopes  of  seeing 
through  my  friend  Cole.         ....... 


[1851.] 

Reform  Club. 
My  Dear  Sir  or  Madam  : 

Pax  vobiscum ,'  ora  pro  nobis.  If  you  go  to  the  lecture 
to-day,  will  you  have  the  fly  ?  It  will  be  only  ever  so  little  out 
of  the  fly's  way  to  come  for  you  :  and  will  you  fetch  me  from 
this  place  please,  and  will  you  send  an  answer  by  coachman 
to  say  whether  you  will  come  or  no  ? 

I  had  a  gentle  ride  in  the  Park,  and  was  all  but  coming 
to  15,  but  I  thought  I  wouldn't  get  off  my  oss  at  any  place 
save  that  where  I  am  going  to  work,  namely  this  here,  until 
lecture  time.  Doyle  will  be  in  waiting  at  \^  o'clock  to  let 
the  stray  sheep  into  the  fold. 

I  am,  yours 

Makepeace, 
Bishop  of  Mealy  Potatoes. 


136  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


My  Dear  Lady  : 

I  have  been  at  work  until  now,  eight  o'clock.  The  house 
is  very  pleasant,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  G.  bent  on  being  so,  the  din- 
ners splendacious,  and  what  do  you  think  I  did  yesterday  ? 
Please  to  tell  Spring  Rice  this  with  my  best  regards,  tomor- 
row. I  thought  over  the  confounded  Erminia  matter  in  the 
railroad,  and  wrote  instantly  on  arriving  here,  a  letter  of  con- 
trition and  apology  to  Henry  Taylor  for  having  made,  what  I 
see  now,  was  a  flippant  and  offensive  allusion  to  Mrs.  Taylor. 
I  am  glad  I  have  done  it.  I  am  glad  that  so  many  people 
whom  I  have  been  thinking  bigoted  and  unfair  and  unjust 
towards  me,  have  been  right,  and  that  I  have  been  wrong, 
and  my  mind  is  an  immense  deal  easier. 


My  dear :   Will  you,  I  mean  Mr.  Brookfield,  like  to 

come  to  Mrs.  S's  sworry  to-night.'*  There  will  be  very  pretty 
music,  and  yesterday  when  I  met  her,  I  said  I  wanted  her 
very  much  to  go  and  sing  to  a  sick  lady  of  my  acquaintance 
and  she  said  she  would  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the 
world ;  and  I  think  it  would  be  right  if  Mr.  Brookfield  should 
call  upon  her,  and  I  am  disengaged  on  Wednesday  next 
either  for  evening  or  dinner,  and  Mrs.  Sartoris'  number  is  99 
Eaton  Place,  and  I  am, 

Your  obedient  servant 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 37 


My  dear  Vieux  : 

I  have  told  the  mouche  to  call  for  me  at  the  Punch  office 
at  eight,  and  to  come  round  by  Portman  Street  first.  If  you 
like  you  can  come  and  we  can  go  to  a  little  play,  a  little 
something,  to  Hampstead  even  if  you  were  up  to  it.  If 
you'd  like  best  to  sit  at  home,  I'd  like  to  smoke  a  pipe  with 
you  ;  if  you'd  like  best  to  sit  at  home  alone,  I  can  go  about  my 
own  business,  but  don't  mind  choosing  which  way  of  the  three 
you  prefer,  and 

Believe  me,  hallis  yours 

W.  M.  T. 


My  dear  sick  Lady  : 

I  send  you  i,  2,  3,  4,  5,  6,  7,  MSS  just  to  amuse  you  for 
ten  minutes.  Annie's  I  am  sure  will ;  isn't  it  good  ?  the 
perilous  passage,  and  the  wanting  to  see  me.  The  letters 
are  to  ladies  who  bother  me  about  the  Bath  and  Wash-house 
fete ;  and  the  verses,  marked  2,  were  written  in  a  moment  of 
depression — I  wonder  whether  you  will  like  No.  2  ? 

Virginia  wasn't  at  dinner  after  all,  yesterday.  Wasn't 
that  a  judgment  on  somebody  ?  She  stopped  to  take  care  of 
a  sick  sister  she  has  ;  but  I  made  myself  as  happy  as  circum- 
stances admitted,  and  drank  your  health  in  a  glass  of  Mr. 
Prinsep's  excellent  claret;  one  can't  drink  mere  port  this 
weather. 

When  you  have  read  all  the  little  papers,  please  put  them 
back,  and  send  them  by  the  printer's  devil  to  their  owner.  It 
has  just  crossed  my  mind  that  you  may  think  it  very  con- 
ceited, my  sending  you  notes  to  read,  addressed  to  grand 
ladies,  as  if  I  was  proud  of  my  cleverness   in  writing  them, 


138  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

and  of  being  in  a  state  of  correspondence  with  such  grand 
persons.     But  I  don't  want  to  show  off,  only  to  try  and  give 
you   ever  so  little  amusement,  and  I  don't  choose  to  think 
about  what  other  people  choose  to  think  about. 
Yours,  dear  Mrs.  Brookfield, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


My  dear  Madam  : 

I  am  always  thinking  of  Mrs.  C —  W —  H —  with  a  feel- 
ing of  regard,  so  intense  and  incomprehensible,  that  feeble 
words  cannot  give  it  utterance,  and  I  know  that  only  a  strong 
struggle  with  my  interior  and  a  Principle  which  I  may  say  is 
based  on  the  eternal  data  of  perennial  reminiscences,  can  keep 
this  fluttering  heart  tolerably  easy  and  secure.  But  what, 
what,  is  Memory  ?  Memory  without  Hope  is  but  a  negative 
idiosyncracy,  and  Hope  without  Memory,  a  plant  that  has  no 
root.  Life  has  many  such,  but  still  I  feel  that  they  are  too 
few ;  death  may  remove  or  in  some  way  modify  their  poig- 
nancy ;  the  future  alone  can  reconcile  them  with  the  irrevocable 
fiat  of  yesterday,  and  tomorrow  I  have  little  doubt  will  laugh 
them  into  melancholy  scorn.  Deem  not  that  I  speak  lightly, 
or  that  beneath  the  mask  of  satire,  any  doubt,  any  darkness, 
any  pleasure  even,  or  foreboding,  can  mingle  with  the  depth 
of  my  truthfulness.  Passion  is  but  a  hypocrite  and  a  moni- 
tor, however  barefaced. 

Action,  febrile  continuous  action,  should  be  the  pole  star 
of  our  desolate  being.  If  this  is  not  reality,  I  know  not  what 
is.     Mrs.  C.  W.  H.  may  not  understand  me,  but  you  will. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 39 


Fragment. 

And  is  W.  Bullar  going  to  work  upon  you  with 
his  "  simple  mysticism  ?  "  I  don't  know  about  the  Unseen 
World  ;  the  use  of  the  seen  World  is  the  right  thing  I'm 
sure  ! — it  is  just  as  much  God's  world  and  Creation  as  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven  with  all  the  angels.  How  will  you 
make  yourself  most  happy  in  it  ?  how  secure  at  least  the 
greatest  amount  of  happiness  compatible  with  your  condition  ? 
by  despising  to-day,  and  looking  up  cloudward  ?  Pish.  Let 
us  turn  God's  to-day  to  its  best  use,  as  well  as  any  other 
part  of  the  time  He  gives  us.  When  I  am  on  a  cloud  a-sing- 
ing,  or  a  pot  boiling — I  will  do  my  best,  and  if  you  are  ill, 
you  can  have  consolations ;  if  you  have  disappointments,  you 
can  invent  fresh  sources  of  hope  and  pleasure.  I'm  glad  you 
saw  the  Crowes,  and  that  they  gave  you  pleasure ; — and  that 
noble  poetry  of  Alfred's  gives  you  pleasure  (I'm  happy  to  say 
ma'am  I've  said  the  very  same  thing  in  prose  that  you  like — 
the  very  same  words  almost).  The  bounties  of  the  Father  I 
believe  to  be  countless  and  inexhaustible  for  most  of  us  here 
in  life  ;  Love  the  greatest.  Art  (which  is  an  exquisite  and 
admiring  sense  of  nature)  the  next. — By  Jove  !  I'll  admire,  if 
I  can,  the  wing  of  a  Cock-sparrow  as  much  as  the  pinion  of 
an  Archangel ;  and  adore  God  the  Father  of  the  earth,  first ; 
waiting  for  the  completion  of  my  senses,  and  the  fulfilment  of 
His  intentions  towards  me  afterwards,  when  this  scene  closes 
over  us.  So  when  Bullar  turns  up  his  i  to  the  ceiling,  I'll 
look  straight  at  your  dear  kind  face  and  thank  God  for  know- 
ing that,  my  dear ;  and  though  my  nose  is  a  broken  pitcher, 
yet,  Lo  and  behold  there's  a  Well  gushing  over  with  kindness 
in  my  heart  where  my  dear  lady  may  come  and  drink.  God- 
bless  you, — and  WiUiam  and  little  Magdalene. 


I40  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


Fragment. 

I  have  had  the  politest  offer  made  me  to  go  to  Scotland, 
to  Edinburgh,  where  there  is  a  meeting  of  the  savants — just 
the  thing  for  me,  you  know ;  thence  to  the  Highlands  with 
Edward  Ellice  ;  thence  to  Miss  Prince's  friend,  the  Duchess, 
who  is  the  most  jovial,  venerable,  pleasant,  and  I  should 
think  too,  a  little  wicked,  old  lady.  And  I  suppose  I  could  be 
franked  through  the  kingdom  from  one  grandee  to  another  ; 
but  it  don't  seem  much  pleasure  or  rest,  does  it  ?  Best 
clothes  every  day,  and  supporting  conversation  over  three 
courses  at  dinner ;  London  over  again.  And  a  month  of 
solitary  idleness  and  wandering  would  be  better  than  that, 
wouldn't  it  ?  On  the  other  hand  it  is  a  thing  to  do  and  a 
sight  to  see,  sure  to  be  useful  professionally,  some  day  or 
other,  and  to  come  in  in  some  story  unborn  as  yet. 

I  did  the  doggerel  verses  which  were  running  in  my  head 
when  I  last  wrote  you,  and  they  are  very  lively.  You'd  say 
the  author  must  have  been  in  the  height  of  good  spirits  ; — 
no,  you  wouldn't,  knowing  his  glum  habit  and  dismal  views 
of  Hfe  generally. 

We  are  going  on  a  little  holiday  excursion  down  the 
river  to  Blackwall,  to  board  the  American  Packet-ship,  the 
Southampton,  I  told  you  of  before  ;  and  shake  hands  with 
the  jolly  captain,  and  see  him  out  of  the  dock.  Then  the 
young  ladies  are  going  to  Don  Giovanni  in  the  evening,  and 
I  to  dine  with  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  but  I  want  quiet. 

Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  of  O'Gorman  Mahon, 
bidding  some  ladies  to  beware  of  me  for  I  could  talk  a  bird 
off  a  tree  ?  I  was  rather  pleased  at  the  expression,  but 
O'Gorman  last  Saturday,  took  me  away  out  of  Lord  Palmer- 
ston's  arms,  with  whom  I  was  talking,  and  said  that  some 
ladies  had  informed  him,  that  when  he  made  use  of  that  ex- 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  141 

pression,  my  countenance  assumed  a  look  of  the  most  diabol- 
ical rage  and  passion,  and  that  I  abused  him,  O'Gorman  in 
the  most  savage  manner.  In  vain  I  remonstrated,  he'll  be- 
lieve it  to  the  end  of  his  life. 


1851. 

Good  Friday. 

Yesterday  evening  in  the  bitter  blast  of  the  breeze  of 
March,  a  Cavalier,  whose  fingers  were  so  numbed  that  he 
scarce  could  hold  the  rein  of  his  good  steed,  might  have  been 
perceived  at  a  door  in  Portman  Street  in  converse  with  a 
footman  in  dark  green  livery,  and  whose  buttons  bore  the 
cognizance  of  the  Well-known  house  of  Brookfield.  Clouded 
with  care  and  anxiety  at  first  the  horse-man's  countenance  (a 
stalwart  and  grey-haired  man  he  was,  by  our  lady,  and  his 
face  bore  the  marks  of  wounds  received  doubtless  in  early 
encounters)  presently  assumed  a  more  cheerful  aspect  when 
he  heard  from  the  curly-pated  servitor  whom  he  interrogated 
that  his  Lady's  health  was  better.  "  Gramercy  "  he  of  the 
steed  exclaimed  "  so  that  she  mend  I  am  happy  !  happier 
still  when  I  may  behold  her  !  Carry  my  duty,  Fellow,  to  my 
Mistress'  attendant,  and  tell  her  that  Sir  Titmarsh  hath  been 
at  her  gate."  It  closed  upon  him.  The  horse-man  turned  his 
charger's  head  home-ward,  and  soon  was  lost  to  view  in  the 
now  lonely  park. 

I've  been  to  church  already  with  the  young  ones — had  a 
fine  ride  in  the  country  yesterday — am  going  to  work  directly 
this  note  goes  off — and  am  exceedingly  well  and  jolly  in 
health.  I  think  this  is  all  my  news.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Elliot 
has  been  very  bad  but  is  mending.  I  dined  there  last  night. 
She  was  on  the  sofa,  and  I  thought  about  her  kind  face  com- 


142  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

ing  in  to  me  (along  side  of  another  kind-face)  when  I  was  ill. 
What  numbers  of  ofood  folks  there  are  in  the  world  !  Fred. 
Elliot  would  do  anything,  I  believe,  to  help  me  to  a  place. 
Old  Miss  Berry  is  very  kind  too,  nothing  can  be  kinder ;  but 
I  will  go  back  to  my  poetry  for  Punch,  such  as  it  is,  and  say 
good-bye  to  my  dear  lady  and  Miss  Brookfield  and  Mr. 

W.  M.  T. 


[1851.] 

Mesdames  : 

You  mustn't  trust  the  honest  Scotsman,  who  is  such  a 
frantic  admirer  that  nothing  less  than  a  thousand  people  will 
content  him.  I  had  a  hundred  subscribers  and  two  hundred 
other  people  for  the  first  lecture.  Isn't  that  handsome  ?  It 
is  such  a  good  audience  that  I  begin  to  reflect  about  going 
to  America  so  soon.  Why,  if  so  much  money  is  to  be  made 
in  this  empire,  not  go  through  with  the  business  and  get 
what  is  to  be  had  ?  The  Melgunds  I  saw  at  the  sermon, 
and  the  Edinburgh  big-wigs  in  plenty.  The  M's  live  over 
the  way,  I  go  to  see  them  directly  and  thank  them.  And  I 
like  to  tell  you  of  my  good  luck,  and  am  always  yours, 

W.  M.  T. 


(From  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Elliot,  now  in  the  possession  of  her  sister,  Miss  Kate  Perry.] 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 43 


15  July,   1851. 

The  happy  family  has  scarce  had  a  moment's  rest  since 
we  left  the  St.  Katherine's  wharf,  and  this  is  wrote  on  board 

the  steamer in  the  Rhine,  with  ever  so  many  fine  views 

at  my  back, — Minnie  on  t'other  side  writing  to  her  grand- 
mother, and  Annie  reading  her  father's  works  in  the  Tauch- 
nitz  edition.  It  has  not  been  a  very  brilliant  journey  hith- 
erto, but  the  little  ones  are  satisfied,  that's  the  main  point. 
The  packet  to  Antwerp  was  awful,  a  storm,  and  a  jib  carried 
away,  and  a  hundred  women  being  sick  on  the  cabin  floor  all 
night.  The  children  very  unwell,  but  behaving  excellently  ; 
their  pa,  tranquil  under  a  table  and  not  in  the  least  sick,  for 
a  wonder. 

We  passed  the  day,  Friday,  at  Antwerp,  when  I  hope  his 
reverence  came  home  to  you  better.  And  it  was  very  pleas- 
ant going  about  with  the  children,  walking  and  lionising. 
Yesterday,  we  got  up  at  five  and  rushed  to  Cologne ;  today 
we  rose  at  four,  and  rushed  to  Mayence.  We  shall  sleep  at 
Wiesbaden  or  at  Frankfurt  tonight,  as  the  fancy  siezes  me ; 
and  shall  get  on  to  Heidelberg,  then  to  Basle,  then  to  Berne, 
&  so  on  to  Como,  Milan,  Venice,  if  it  don't  cost  too  much 
money.  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  church  at  this  time,  and 
know  the  bells  of  Knio-htsbrido^e  are  tolling-.  If  I  don't  o-o  to 
church  myself  (but  I  do,  here,  this  instant,  opposite  the  young 
ones)  I  know  who  will  say  a  God  bless  me 

I  bought  Kickleburys,  Rebecca  a?id  Rowena,  and  the  Rhine 
Story  and  read  them  through  with  immense  pleasure.  Do 
you  know  I  think  all  three  Capital,  and  R.  and  R.  not  only 
made  me  laugh  but  the  other  thing.  Here's  pretty  matter  to 
send  a  lady  from  a  tour  !  Well,  I  know  you  like  to  hear  my 
praises  and  I  am  glad  to  send  them  to  you.  They  are  put- 
ting off  a  flat-bottomed  boat  from  the  shore — they  are  putting 


144  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

out  the  tables  for  dinner.  I  will  lock  up  my  paper  and  finish 
my  letter  at  some  future  halting-place,  and  so  good-bye  dear 
lady. 

Wiesbaden.  The  first  minute  to  myself  since  we  came 
away,  and  that  in  a  ground  floor  closet,  where  it  has  been 
like  sleeping  in  the  street, — the  whole  house  passing  by  it. 
It  is  the  Hotel  de  la  Rose.  Annie  and  Minnie  are  put  away 
somewhere  in  the  top  of  the  house,  and  this  minute  at  six  in 
the  morning,  on  the  parade,  they  have  begun  music.  The 
drive  hither  last  night  from  the  steamer  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful thing  which  has  happened  to  us  yet,  and  a  view  of  the 
Rhine  at  Sunset,  seen  from  a  height,  as  lovely  as  Paradise. 
This  was  the  first  fine  day  we  have  had,  and  the  splendour 
of  the  landscape-colours  something  marvellous  to  gaze  upon. 
If  Switzerland  is  better  than  this,  we  shall  be  in  a  delirium. 
It  is  affecting  to  see  Annie's  happiness.  My  dear  noble 
creature,  always  magnanimous  and  gentle.  I  sat  with  the 
children  and  talked  with  them  about  their  mother  last  night. 
It  is  my  pleasure  to  tell  them  how  humble-minded 
their  mother  was,  how  humble  minded  you  are,  my  dear 
lady.  They  bid  me  to  the  bath,  I  rise,  I  put  on  my  scarlet, 
gownd,  I  go. 

Thursday  morning.  Again  six  o'clock.  Heidelberg. 
After  the  bath  and  the  breakfast  we  discovered  that  we  were 
so  uncomfortable  at  that  most  comfortable  inn  the  Rose, 
without  having  the  least  prospect  of  bettering  ourselves,  that 
we  determined  on  quitting  Wiesbaden,  though  Mrs.  Stewart 
Mackenzie  had  arranged  a  party  for  us,  to  see  the  Duke's 
garden, — an  earthly  paradise  according  to  her  account, — and 
though  in  the  walk,  a  taking  his  waters,  whom  should  I  see,, 
but  T.  Parr,  Esquire,  and  I  promised  to  go  and  see  him  and 
your  sister.  But  Dieu  dispose,  and  we  came  off  to  Frankfurt 
and  took  a  carriage  there  for  two  hours  and  a  half  and  in- 
spected the   city  and  then   made  for   Heidelberg  which   we 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  1 45 

reached  at  6\,  too  late  for  anything  but  dinner  and  a  sleep 
afterwards,  in  the  noisiest  street  I  ever  sUp  in  ;  and  there 
were  other  causes  for  want  of  rest,  and  so  I  got  me  up  at  five 
and  soothed  myself  with  the  pleasant  cigar  of  morn. 

My  dear  lady,  the  country  is  very  pretty,  zwischen  Frank- 
furt and  Heidelberg,  especially  some  fantastical  little  moun- 
tains, the  Melibocus  range,  of  queer  shapes,  starting  out  of 
the  plain,  capped  with  darkling  pine  forests  and  ruined  cas- 
tles, covered  with  many  coloured  crops  and  based  by  peace- 
ful little  towns  with  old  towers  and  walls.  And  all  these 
things  as  I  behold,  I  wish  that  somebody's  eyes  could  see 
them  likewise  ;  and  R !  I  should  like  a  few  days  rest,  and 
to  see  nothing  but  a  shady  wood  and  a  tolerably  stupid  book 
to  doze  over. 

We  had  Kingsley  and  his  parents  from  Antwerp  ;  a  fine 
honest  go-ahead  fellow,  who  charges  a  subject  heartily,  im- 
petuously, with  the  greatest  courage  and  simplicity ;  but 
with  narrow  eyes  (his  are  extraordinarily  brave,  blue  and 
honest),  and  with  little  knowledge  of  the  world,  I  think.  But 
he  is  superior  to  us  worldlings  in  many  ways,  and  I  wish  I 
had  some  of  his  honest  pluck.  And  so  my  stupid  paper  is 
full,  and  I  send  my  love  to  you  and  yours. 
10 


146  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


Thursday,  17th.    [July,  1851.] 

Yesterday  was  a  golden  day,  the  pleasantest  of  the  jour- 
ney as  yet.  The  day  before  we  got  to  Baden-Baden  ;  and  I 
had  a  notion  of  staying,  say  two  or  three  days,  having  found 
an  agreeable  family  acquaintance  or  two,  Madame  de  Bonne- 
val,  sister  of  Miss  Galway,  with  whom  we  went  to  the  hippo- 
drome, &  M.  Martchenko,  that  nice  Russian  who  gave  me 
cigars  and  flattered  me  last  year  ;  but  the  weather  beginning 
to  be  bad,  and  the  impure  atmosphere  of  the  pretty,  witty 
gambling  place  not  good  for  my  young  ones,  we  came  away 
by  the  Basel  railroad  in  the  first-class,  like  princes.  A  most 
delightful  journey  through  the  delicious  landscape  of  plain 
and  mountains,  which  seemed  to  Switzify  themselves  as  we 
came  towards  here  ;  and  the  day's  rest  here  has  not  been 
least  pleasant,  though,  or  perhaps  because,  it  rained  all  the 
morning  and  I  was  glad  to  lie  on  the  sofa  and  smoke  my 
cigar  in  peace.  On  Tuesday  at  Baden  it  was  pretty.  Hav- 
ing been  on  duty  for  five  days,  I  went  out  for  a  solitary  walk, 
and  was  finding  myself  taut  soit  pete  tired  of  my  dear  little 
companions ;  and  met  Madame  de  Bonneval,  who  proposed 
a  little  tea,  and  a  little  society  &c.  ;  and  when  I  came  back  to 
the  inn,  there  was  Annie,  with  Minnie  on  her  knees,  and  tell- 
ing her  a  story  with  a  sweet  maternal  kindness  and  patience, 
God  bless  her.  This  touched  me  very  much  and  I  didn't 
leave  them  again  till  bedtime,  and  didn't  go  to  the  rouge- 
et-noir  and  only  for  half  an  hour  to  Monsieur  and  Madame 
de  Bonneval, — from  whose  society  I  determined  to  escape 
next  day, — and  we  agreed  it  was  the  pleasantest  day  we  had 
had ;  and  Minnie  laid  out  the  table  of  the  first  class  carriage 
(they  are  like  little  saloons  and  delightful  to  travel  in)  with 
all  the  contents  of  the  travelling  bag,  books,  o  de  Cologne, 
ink  &c.  ;   and  we  had  good  trout  for  supper  at  nine  o'clock ; 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 47 

and  today,  at  two,  we  walked  out  and  wandered  very  pleas- 
antly for  two  hours  and  a  half  about  the  town  and  round  it ; 
and  we  are  very  hungry ;  and  we  hope  the  dinner  bell  will 
ring  soon — and  tomorrow  I  am  forty  years  old,  and  hope  to 
find  at  Berne  a  letter  from  my  dear  lady.  You  see  one's  let- 
ters must  be  stupid,  for  they  are  written  only  when  I  am 
tired  and  just  come  off  duty ;  but  the  sweet  young  ones'  hap- 
piness is  an  immense  pleasure  to  me,  and  these  calm  sweet 
landscapes  bring  me  calm  and  delight  too  ;  the  bright  green 
pastures,  and  the  soft  flowing  river  (under  my  window  now) 
and  the  purple  pine-covered  mountains,  with  the  clouds  flick- 
ering round  them — O  !  Lord  !  how  much  better  it  is  than 
riding  in  the  Park  and  going  to  dinner  at  eight  o'clock  !  I 
wonder  whether  a  residence  in  this  country  would  ennoble 
one's  thoughts  permanently,  and  get  them  away  from  mean 
quarrels,  intrigues,  pleasures  ?  make  me  write  good  books — 
turn  poet  perhaps  or  orator — and  get  out  of  that  business  of 
London — in  which  there  is  one  good  thing?  Ah,  one  good 
thing,  and  God  bless  her  always  and  always.  I  see  my  dear 
lady  and  her  little  girl ;  pax  be  with  them.  Is  it  only  a  week 
that  we  are  gone,  it  seems  a  year. 

Berne.  Saturday  igth.  Faucon. — I  must  tell  you  that  I 
asked  at  Heidelberg  at  the  post  only  by  way  of  a  joke,  and 
never  so  much  as  expecting  a  half-penny  worth  of  letter  from 
you  ;  but  here  I  went  off  to  the  post  as  sure  as  fate.  Thinks 
I,  it  being  my  birthday  yesterday  there  must  be  a  little  some- 
thing waiting  for  me  at  \}i\^  poste  restante,  but  the  deuce  a  bit 
of  a  little  something.  Well  I  hope  you're  quite  well,  and 
I'm  sure  you'd  write  if  something  hadn't  prevented  you,  and 
at  Milan  or  at  Venice  I  hope  for  better  fortune.  We  had  the 
most  delightful  ride  yesterday  from  Basel,  going  through  a 
country  which  I  suppose  prepares  one  for  the  splendider 
scenery  of  the  Alps;  kind  good-natured  little  mountains,  not 
too  awful  to  look  at,  but  encouraging  in  appearance,  and  lead- 


148  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

ino-  us  oradually  up  to  the  enormities  which  we  are  to  con- 
template in  a  day  or  two.  A  steady  rain  fell  all  day,  but  this, 
as  it  only  served  to  make  other  people  uncomfortable,  (es- 
pecially the  six  Belgian  fellow-travellers  in  the  Bei-wagen, 
which  leaked,  and  in  which  they  must  have  had  a  desperate 
time)  rather  added  to  our  own  pleasure,  snug  in  the  coupd. 
We  have  secured  it  for  tomorrow  to  Lucerne,  and  today  for 
the  first  time  since  our  journey  there's  a  fine  bright  sun  out, 
and  the  sight  we  have  already  had  of  this  most  picturesque  of 
all  towns,  gives  me  a  zest  for  that  fine  walk  which  we  are 
going  to  fetch  presently.  I  have  made  only  one  sketch  in 
this  note  ;  best  not  make  foolish  sketches  of  buildings,  but 
look  about  and  see  the  beautiful  pictures  done  for  you  by  Nat- 
ure beneficent.  It  is  almost  the  first  place  I  have  seen  in 
Europe  where  the  women  actually  wear  costumes — in  Rome 
only  the  women  who  get  up  for  the  painters  dress  differently 
from  other  folks.  Travelling  as  Paterfamilias,  with  a  daugh- 
ter in  each  hand,  I  don't  like  to  speak  to  our  country  folks  ; 
but  give  myself  airs,  rather,  and  keep  off  from  them.  If  I 
were  alone  I  should  make  up  to  everybody.  You  don't  see 
things  so  well  a  trois  as  you  do  alone  ;  you  are  an  English 
gentleman  ;  you  are  shy  of  queer-looking  or  queer-speaking 
people;  you  are  in  t\\&  coupe ;  you  are  an  earl; — confound 
your  impudence,  if  you  had  ^5000  a  year  and  were  Tomparr, 
Esq.,  you  could  not  behave  yourself  more  high  and  mightily. 
Ah  !  I  recollect  ten  years  back,  a  poor  devil  looking  wistfully 
at  the  few  napoleons  in  h\s  gousset,  and  giving  himself  no  airs 
at  all.  He  was  a  better  fellow  than  the  one  you  know  per- 
haps ;  not  that  our  characters  alter,  only  they  develop  and 
our  minds  grow  grey  and  bald,  &c.  I  was  a  boy  ten  years 
ago,  bleating  out  my  simple  cries  in  the  Great  Hoggarty  dia- 
mond. We  have  seen  many  pretty  children,  two  especially, 
sitting  in  a  little  tub  by  the  roadside  ;  but  we  agree  that 
there  is  none  so  pretty  as  baby  Brookfield,  we  wish  for  her 


irt  ^ 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 49 

and  for  her  mother,  I  beheve.  This  is  a  brilliant  kind  of  a 
tour  isn't  it  ?  egotistical  twaddle.  I've  forgot  the  lectures  as 
much  as  if  they  had  never  been  done,  and  my  impression  is 
that  they  were  a  failure.  Come  along  young  ladies,  we'll 
go  a  walk  until  dinner  time,  and  keep  the  remainder  of  this 
sheet  (sacrificing  the  picture,  as  after  all,  why  shouldn't  we  ? 
such  a  two-penny  absurd  thing  ?)  and  folding  the  sheet  up  in 
a  different  way.  So  good  bye  lady,  and  I  send  you  a  G  and 
a  B  and  a  Y, 

Lucerne.  Monday  morning. — We  are  in  love  with  Berne. 
We  agree  that  we  should  like  to  finish  our  lives  there,  it 
is  so  homely,  charming  and  beautiful,  without  knowing  it ; 
whereas  this  place  gives  itself  the  airs  of  a  beauty  and  of- 
fends me  somehow.  We  are  in  an  inn  like  a  town,  bells 
begin  at  four  in  the  morning,  two  hours  ago,  and  at  present 
all  the  streets  of  the  hotel  are  alive  ;  we  are  not  going  up  the 
Righi ;  Y  should  we  go  up  a  dimmed  mountain  to  see  a 
dimmed  map  under  our  feet?  We  are  going  on  to  Milan 
pretty  quick.  The  day  after  tomorrow  we  shall  sail  down 
the  Major  lake,  we  hope  to  Sesto  Calendi  and  so  to  Milan.  I 
wonder  whether  you  have  written  to  me  to  Como  ?  Well, 
I  would  have  bet  five  to  one  on  a  letter  at  Berne  ;  but  such 
is  life  and  such  is  woman,  that  the  philosopher  must  not 
reckon  on  either.  And  what  news  would  you  have  sent  ? 
that  the  baby  is  well,  that  you  have  enjoyed  yourself  pretty 
well  at  Sevenoaks  ? — I  would  give  6^^  to  hear  as  much  as  that. 

\Here  occurs  the  Drawing  reproduced  on  p.  150.] 
Such  is  a  feeble  but  accurate  outline  of  the  view  out  of  my 
window  at  this  moment,  and  all  the  time  I  am  drawing  it, 
(you  will  remark  how  pleasantly  the  firs  and  pastures  in  the 
foreground  are  indicated,  whereas  I  cannot  do  anything  with 
ink,  being  black,  to  represent  the  snow  on  the  mountains 
behind)  I  am  making  pretty  dramatic  sketches  in  my  mind  of 
misfortune  happening  to  you, — that  you  are  unwell,  that  you 


I50 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 


are  thrown  out  of  a  carnage,  that  Dr.  Locock  is  in  attend- 
ance, que  sais-jef 

As  for  my  dear  young-  ones  I  am  as  happy  with  them  as 
possible ;  Annie  is  a  fat  lump  of  pure  gold,  the  kindest  dear- 
est creature,  as  well  as  a  wag  of  the  first  water.  It  is  an 
immense  blessing  that  Heaven  has  given  me  such  an  artless 
affectionate  companion.  We  were  looking  at  a  beautiful, 
smiling,  innocent  view  at  Berne,  on  Saturday,  and  she  said, 


5l«4t  U  *  TtcWt  vcd  AC 

ai  Udi  '-Umtuu^^X  AWt  ait 


"it's  like  Baby  Brookfield."  There's  for  you  !  and  so  it  was 
like  innocence,  and  brightness,  and  &c,  &c.  Oh  !  may  she 
never  fall  in  love  absurdly  and  marry  an  ass  !  If  she  will 
but  make  her  father  her  confidant,  I  think  the  donkey 
won't  long  keep  his  ground  in  her  heart.  And  so  the 
paper  is  full  and  must  go  to  England  without  ever  so  much 
as  saying  thank  you  for  your  letter.  Good-bye  my  dear 
lady,  good-bye  Miss  Brookfield,  Good-bye  Mr.  Brookfield, 
says 

Your  affectionate, 

W.  M.  T. 
Au  Suisse,  July  21st. 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  151 


[Fragment.]  Paris,  1851. 

A  Story  with  a  Moral. 

Last  night  I  went  to  a  party  at  the  house  of  my  mother's 
friend  Madame  Colemache  (who  introduced  me  to  Madame 
Ancelot  the  authoress,  who  was  dying  to  see  me,  said  Ma- 
dame Colemache,  only  I  found  on  talking  to  Madame  Ancelot 
that  she  didn't  know  who  I  was,  and  so  was  no  more  dying 
than  the  most  lively  of  us)  and  coming  down  stairs  with 
my  Ma  I  thought  to  myself,  I  will  go  home  and  have  an 
hour's  chat  with  her,  and  try  and  cheer  and  console  her,  for 
her  sad  tragic  looks  melted  my  heart,  and  always  make  me 
think  I  am  a  cruel  monster  ;  and  so  I  was  very  tender  and 
sentimental  and  you  see  caressed  her  filially  as  we  went 
down.  It  was  a  wet  night  and  the  fly  was  waiting,  and  she 
was  just  going  to  step  in — but  there  entered  at  the  house 
door  a  fiddler  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm,  whom  when  dear 
old  Mater  dolorosa  beheld,  she  said,  "  O  !  that  is  Monsieur 
2111  /^/ who  has  come  to  play  a  duo  with  Laure  ;  I  must  go 
back  and  hear  him."  And  back  she  went,  and  all  my  senti- 
mentality was  gulped  down  and  I  came  home  and  sent  the 
fly  back  two  miles  for  her,  with  Jeames  to  escort  her  in  the 
rain.  The  Moral  is  that  women  with  those  melancholy  eyes, 
and  sad,  sad  looks  are  not  always  so  melancholy  as  they 
seem  ;  they   have   consolations, — amusements,    fiddlers,   &c. 


I  am  happy,  as  happy  as  I  can  be  here,  which  is  pretty 
well,  though  I  am  bored  daily  and  nightly,  and  drag  about 
sulkily  from  tea  party  to  tea  party.  Last  night  my  mother 
had  her  little  T,  and  they  danced,  and  it  was  not  at  all   un- 


152  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

pleasant  quaiid  on  ydtait.  I  found  an  old  school-fellow,  look- 
ing ten  years  younger  than  myself,  whom  I  remember  older 
and  bigger  than  myself  twenty-eight  years  ago  ;  and  he  had 
got  a  charming  young  wife,  quite  civilized  and  pleasant  to 
talk  to,  and  the  young  ladies  had  their  new  frocks  and  looked 
tolerably  respectable,  and  exceedingly  happy.  They  are  to 
go  to  a  party  on  Monday,  and  another  on  Wednesday,  and 
on  Thursday  (D.  V)  we  shall  be  on  the  homeward  road 
again. 

I  had  cuddled  myself  with  the  notion  of  having  one  even- 
ing to  myself,  one  quiet  dinner,  one  quiet  place  at  the  play ; 
but  my  mother  took  my  only  evening  and  gave  it  to  an  old 
lady  whom  I  don't  want  to  see,  and  who  would  have  done 
very  well  without  me, — was  there  ever  such  a  victim  ?  I  go 
about  from  house  to  house  and  grumble  everywhere.  I  say 
Thursday,  D.  V.,  for  what  mayn't  happen?  My  poor  cousin 
Charlotte  has  a  relapse  of  rheumatic  fever  ;  my  Aunt  is  in  a 
dreadful  prostration  and  terror.  "  If  anything  happens  to 
Charlotte,"  she  says,  "  I  shall  die,  and  then  what  will  Jane 
do?" 


There's  a  kind  of  glum  pleasure,  isn't  there,  in  sitting  by 
sick  beds  and  trying  to  do  one's  best  ?  I  took  the  old  G.  P. 
to  dinner  at  a  Cafd  yesterday,  before  the  soiree  /  he  is  very 
nice  and  kind  and  gentle 

Well,  on  Wednesday  I  am  going  to  dine  with  the  Prefet 
de  Police,  and  afterwards  to  Madame  Scrivanacks  ball,  where 
I  shall  meet, — I,  an  old  fellow  of  forty — all  the  pretty  ac- 
tresses of  Paris.      Let  us  give  a  loose  to  pleasure 

Mamma  and  I  went  to  see  the  old  lady  last  night, — Lady 
Elgin  an  honest,  grim,  big,  clever  old  Scotch  lady,  well  read 
and  good  to  talk  to,  dealing  in  religions  of  many  denomina- 
tions, and  having  established  in  her  house  as  a  sort  of  direc- 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  1 53 

tor,  Mr,  C.  one  of  the  heads  of  the  Irvlngites  a  clever,  shifty, 
sneakinor  man.  I  wish  I  had  had  your  story  of  Manning ; 
that  would  have  been  conversation,  but  your  note  didn't  ar- 
rive till  this  morning.  Thank  you,  and  I  hope  you  are  very 
well 

I  hope  you  will  like  good  old  Miss  Agnes  Berry  ;  I  am 
sure  you  will,  and  shall  be  glad  that  you  belong  to  that  kind 
and  polite  set  of  old  ladies  and  worthy  gentlemen.  Mr. 
Williams  too,  will  approve  of  them,  I  should  think.  I  don't 
know  any  better  company  than  Foley  Wilmot  and  Poodle 
Byng.  Pass  quickly  Sunday,  Monday,  Tuesday,  Wednes- 
day. Shall  I  let  Kensington,  with  ten  beds,  to  an  Exhibition- 
seeing  party  and  live  alone  ?  Will  you  take  a  lodger  who 
will  lend  you  a  fly  to  go  to  the  parties  which  you  will  be 
continually  frequenting  ?     Ah  !  that  would  be  pleasant. 

My  cousin  Charlotte  was  much  better  yesterday,  thank 
God,  and  her  mother  quiet.  I  have  been  visiting  the  sick 
here, — one,  two,  three,  every  day.  I  want  to  begin  to  write 
again  very  much  ;  my  mighty  mind  is  tired  of  idleness,  and 
ill  employs  the  intervals  of  rest. 

W.  M.  T. 


and  I  are  going  out  for  a  little  ride  in  half  an  hour,  so 


that  I  have  plenty  of  time  to  send  a  letter  to  you.  The  place 
here  is  a  neat  little  thing  enough,  small  and  snug,  with  a 
great  train  of  inaison  and  not  more  than  twenty  thousand 
acres  about  the  house  ;  nothing  compared  to  Gulston,  Rum- 
bleberry,  Crumply,  and  most  of  the  places  to  which  one  is 
accustomed,  but  very  well,  you  understand  me,  for  people  of 
a  certain  rank  of  life.  One  can  be  happy  with  many  little 
desagrernenis,  when  one  sees  that  the  people  are  determined 
to  be  civil  to  one.  Nobody  here  but  — —  and  the  Duchess,, 
who  don't  show  at  breakfast,  and — no,  I  wont  go  on  writing; 


154  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

this  dreary  nonsense,  which  was  begun  before  I  went  out  for  a 
long  walk  and  then  for  a  ride.  Both  were  exceedingly  pleas- 
ant, for  there  is  a  beautiful  park  and  gardens  and  conserva- 
tories,  and  only  to  see  the  ducks  on  the  water,  and  the  great 
big  lime  trees  in  the  avenue,  gives  one  the  keenest  sensual 
pleasure.  The  wind  seemed  to  me  to  blow  floods  of  health 
into  my  lungs,  and  the  man  I  was  walking  with  was  evi- 
dently amused  by  the  excitement  and  enjoyment  of  his  com- 
panion. I  recollect  His  Reverence  at  Clevedon  being  sur- 
prised at  my  boyish  delight  on  a  similar  occasion.  It  is 
worth  living  in  London,  surely,  to  enjoy  the  country  when 
you  get  to  it ;  and  when  you  go  to  a  man's  grounds  and  get 
into  raptures  concerning  them,  pointing  their  beauties  out 
with  eagerness  and  feeling,  perhaps  the  host  gets  a  better 
opinion  of  his  own  havings  and  belongings. 

At  this  juncture  I  actually  fell  asleep,  being  quite  tired 
out  with  walking,  riding,  and  fresh  air.  What  a  gale  there 
is  blowing,  and  what  a  night  your  sister  must  have  had  to 
cross  !  My  lady  has  been  uncommonly  gracious,  and  has 
one  of  the  sweetest  voices  I  ever  heard,  "  an  excellent 
thing  in  woman."  But  I  am  not  at  my  ease  yet  with  her, 
and  tremble  rather  before  her.  She  is  in  a  great  state  of 
suffering,  I  can  see  though,  and  fancy  I  understand  the 
reason  thereof. 

I  rode  with  Lord  Ashburton  to  Alresford,  where  I  heard 
the  magistrates'  sessions  held,  and  saw  the  squires  arrive. 
It  was  very  good  fun  for  me.  There  was  a  sentimental  case, 
which  somebody  would  have  liked  ;  as  handsome  a  young 
couple  as  I  ever  saw — the  girl  really  beautiful,  and  the  man  a 
,  deceiver, — and,  and, — there  was  a  little  baby,  and  he  was 
•condemned  to  pay  i  /6  a  week  for  keeping  it ;  but  Lord  what 
it  would  be  to  live  in  that  dreary  old  country  town  !  It  is 
good  to  see  though,  and  to  listen  to  the  squires,  and  the  talk 
about  hunting,  and  the  scandal,  and  admire  the   wonderful 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  1 55 

varieties  of  men.  We  met  the  little  girl  and  the  baby  trudg- 
ing home,  sometime  afterwards,  and  the  curate  in  her  wake. 
There  seemed  no  sort  of  shame  about  the  business,  nor  love, 
nor  tears,  as  far  as  one  could  see ;  not  a  halfpenny  worth  of 
romance  ;  only  when  the  child  squalled,  the  mother,  who  was 
very  fond  of  it,  nursed  it,  and  that  made  a  pretty  picture. 

What  a  stupid  letter  I  am  writing !  I  have  nothing  to 
say  ;  I  left  my  portmanteau  in  London,  at  the  station,  and 
was  obliged  to  dine  in  a  frock  coat.  I  hadn't  enough  clothes 
to  my  bed,  and  couldn't  sleep  much 


A  Fragment. 

From  the  Grange. 
The  Bishop  and  a  number  of  clergy  are  coming  here  to- 
morrow and  so  I  stay  on  for  a  couple  of  days.  Yesterday  it 
rained  without,  and  I  was  glad  to  remain  in  my  room  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  and  to  make  a  good  fire  and  prepare 
myself  for  work.  But  I  did  none  ;  it  wouldn't  come — sleep 
came  instead,  and  between  it  and  the  meals  and  reading 
Alton  Locke — the  day  passed  away.  To-day  we  have  had 
a  fine  walk — to  Trench's  parsonage,*  a  pretty  place  3  miles 
off,  through  woods  of  a  hundred  thousand  colours.  The 
Poet  was  absent  but  his  good-natured  wife  came  to  see  us  ; 
— by  Us  I  mean  me.  Lady  Ashburton,  and  Miss  Farrer,  who 
walked  as  aide  de  camp  by  my  lady's  pony.  How  is  it  that 
I  find  myself  humbling  before  her  and  taking  a  certain  para- 
sitical air  as  all  the  rest  do  ?  There's  something  command- 
ing in  the  woman  (she  was  born  in  1806  you'll  understand) 
and  I  see  we  all  of  us  bow  down  before  her.     Why  don't  we 

*  The   Rev.  R.  C.  Trench,  afterwards  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  was  at  Trinity  College  with 
Mr.  Thackeray. 


156  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

bow  down  before  you  ma'am.  Little  Mrs.  Taylor  is  the  only 
one  who  doesn't  seem  to  Kotoo.  I  like  Taylor,*  whose 
grandeur  wears  off  in  ten  minutes,  and  in  whom  one  perceives 
an  extremely  gentle  and  loving  human  creature  I  think — not 
a  man  to  be  intimate  with  ever,  but  to  admire  and  like  from  a 
distance  and  to  have  a  sort  of  artistical  good  will  to.  .  .  . 
We  have  Carlyle  coming  down  directly  the  Taylors  go  away. 
Major  Rawlinson  arrives  to-night.  .  .  .  I've  been  read- 
ing in  Alton  Locke — Bailie  Cochrane,  Keneally's  Goethe — 
and  a  book  on  the  decadence  of  La  France  proved  by  figures, 
and  showing  that  the  French  are  not  increasing  in  wealth  or 
numbers  near  so  fast  as  the  English,  Prussians,  Russians. 
Bailie  Cochrane  is  an  amusing  fellow,  amusing  from  his  pom- 
posity and  historic  air  ;  and  Alton  Locke  begins  to  be  a  bore, 
I  think  ;  and  Keneally's  Goethe  is  the  work  of  a  mad-cap 
with  a  marvellous  facility  of  versifying;  and  I  should  like 
Annie  and  Minnie  to  go  to  my  dear  lady  on  Wednesday  if 
you  will  have  them. 

*  Henry  Taylor,  author  of  Philip  Van  Artevelde,— afterwards  Sir  Henry  Taylor. 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  157 


1852. 

March  i8th,  1852,  Kensington. 
My  Dear  Wm.  : 

I  have  just  received  your  kind  message  and  melancholy 
news.  Thank  you  for  thinking  that  I'm  interested  in  what 
concerns  you,  and  sympathise  in  what  gives  you  pleasure  or 
grief.  Well,  I  don't  think  there  is  much  more  than  this  to- 
day :  but  I  recall  what  you  have  said  in  our  many  talks  of 
your  father,  and  remember  the  affection  and  respect  with 
which  you  always  regarded  and  spoke  of  him.  Who  would 
wish  for  more  than  honour,  love,  obedience  and  a  tranquil 
end  to  old  ai^e  ?  And  so  that  Pfeneration  which  engendered 
us  passes  away,  and  their  place  knows  them  not ;  and  our 
turn  comes  when  we  are  to  say  good  bye  to  our  joys,  strug- 
gles, pains,  affections — and  our  young  ones  will  grieve  and 
be  consoled  for  us  and  so  on.  We've  lived  as  much  in  40  as 
your  good  old  father  in  his  four  score  years,  don't  you  think 
so  ? — and  how  awfully  tired  and  lonely  we  are.  I  picture  to 
myself  the  placid  face  of  the  kind  old  father  with  all  that 
trouble  and  doubt  over — his  life  expiring  with  supreme  bless- 
ings for  you  all — for  you  and  Jane  and  unconscious  little 
Magdalene  prattling  and  laughing  at  life's  threshold ;  and 
know  that  you  will  be  tenderly  cheered  and  consoled  by  the 
good  man's  blessing  for  the  three  of  you  ; '  while  yet,  but  a 
minute,  but  yesterday,  but  all  eternity  ago,  he  was  here  lov- 
ing and  suffering.  I  go  on  with  the  paper  before  me — I 
know  there's  nothing  to  say — but  I  assure  you  of  my  sym- 
pathy and  that  I  am  yours  my  dear  old  friend  aff 'tly, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


158  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY, 


Clarendon  Hotel,  New  York. 

Tuesday,  23  Dec.  [1852] 
My  Dear  Lady: 

I  send  you  a  little  line  and  shake  your  hand  across  the 
water.      God  bless  you  and  yours. 

The  passage  is  nothing,  now  it  is  over ;  I  am  rather 
ashamed  of  gloom  and  disquietude  about  such  a  trifling 
journey.  I  have  made  scores  of  new  acquaintances  and 
lighted  on  my  legs  as  usual.  I  didn't  expect  to  like  people 
as  I  do,  but  am  agreeably  disappointed  and  find  many  most 
pleasant  companions,  natural  and  good ;  natural  and  well 
read  and  well  bred  too ;  and  I  suppose  am  none  the  worse 
pleased  because  everybody  has  read  all  my  books  and 
praises  my  lectures ;  (I  preach  in  a  Unitarian  Church,  and 
the  parson  comes  to  hear  me.  His  name  is  Mr.  Bellows,  it 
isn't  a  pretty  name),  and  there  are  2,000  people  nearly  who 
come,  and  the  lectures  are  so  well  liked  that  it  is  probable  I 
shall  do  them  over  again.  So  really  there  is  a  chance  of 
making  a  pretty  little  sum  of  money  for  old  age,  imbecility, 
and  those  young  ladies  afterwards. 

Had  Lady  Ashburton  told  you  of  the  moving  tables? 
Try,  six  or  seven  of  you,  a  wooden  table  without  brass  cas- 
tors ;  sit  round  it,  lay  your  hands  flat  on  it,  not  touching  each 
other,  and  in  half  an  hour  or  so  perhaps  it  will  begin  to  turn 
round  and  round.  It  is  the  most  wonderful  thing,  but  I 
have  tried  twice  in  vain  since  I  saw  it  and  did  it  at  Mr.  Ban- 
croft's. I  have  not  been  into  fashionable  society  yet,  what 
they  call  the  upper  ten  thousand  here,  but  have  met  very 
likeable  of  the  lower  sort.  On  Sunday  I  went  into  the 
country,  and  there  was  a  great  rosy  jolly  family  of  sixteen  or 
eighteen  people,  round   a  great   tea-table ;  and   the  lady  of 


[From  a  photograph  of  Thackeray  taken  in  America,   in  the  possession   of  Mrs.   James  T.  Fields.] 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  1 59 

the  house  told  me  to  make  myself  at  home — remarking  my 
bashfulness,  you  know — and  said,  with  a  jolly  face,  and 
twinkling-  of  her  little  eyes,  "  Lord  bless  you,  we  know  you 
all  to  pieces!''  and  there  was  sitting  by  me  O!  such  a 
pretty  girl,  the  very  picture  of  Rubens's  second  wife,  and 
face  and  figure.  Most  of  the  ladies,  all  except  this  family, 
are  as  lean  as  greyhounds ;  they  dress  prodigiously  fine, 
taking  for  their  models  the  French  actresses,  I  think,  of  the 
Boulevard  theatres. 

Broadway  is  miles  upon  miles  long,  a  rush  of  life  such  as 
I  never  have  seen  ;  not  so  full  as  the  Strand,  but  so  rapid. 
The  houses  are  always  being  torn  down  and  built  up  again, 
the  railroad  cars  drive  slap  into  the  midst  of  the  city.  There 
are  barricades  and  scaffoldings  banging  everywhere.  I  have 
not  been  into  a  house  except  the  fat  country  one,  but  some- 
thing new  is  being  done  to  it,  and  the  hammerings  are  clat- 
tering in  the  passage,  or  a  wall,  or  steps  are  down,  or  the 
family  is  going  to  move.  Nobody  is  quiet  here,  no  more  am 
I.  The  rush  and  restlessness  pleases  me,  and  I  like,  for  a 
little,  the  dash  of  the  stream.  I  am  not  received  as  a  god, 
which  I  like  too.  There  is  one  paper  which  goes  on  every 
morning  saying  I  am  a  snob,  and  I  don't  say  no.  Six  people 
were  reading  it  at  breakfast  this  morning,  and  the  man  oppo- 
site me  popped  it  under  the  table  cloth.  But  the  other  pa- 
pers roar  with  approbation.  "  Cries,  beuglez  Of  Jour- 
na2€x"  They  don't  understand  French  though,  that  bit  of 
Beranger  will  hang  fire.  Do  you  remember  yi'lc  stir  cette 
boule  &c.  ?  Yes,  my  dear  sister  remembers.  God  Almighty 
bless  her,  and  all  she  loves. 

I  may  write  next  Saturday  to  Chesham  Place  ;  you 
will  go  and  carry  my  love  to  those  ladies  won't  you  ?  Here 
comes  in  a  man  with  a  paper  I  hadn't  seen  ;  I  must  cut  out  a 
bit  just  as  the  actors  do,  but  then  I  think  you  will  like  it,  and 
that  is  why  I  do  it.      There  was  a  very  rich  biography  about 


l6o  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

me  in  one  of  the  papers  the  other  day,  with  an  account  of  a 
servant,  maintained  in  the  splendour  of  his  menial  decorations 
— Poor  old  John  whose  picture  is  in  Pende7inis.  And  I  have 
filled  my  paper,  and  I  shake  my  dear  lady's  hand  across  the 
roaring  sea,  and  I  know  that  you  will  be  glad  to  know  that  I 
prosper  and  that  I  am  well,  and  that  I  am  yours 

W.  M.  T. 


[Cutting  from  the  New  York  Evening  Post  enclosed  in  the 

foregoing.'] 

The  building  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  capacity  with 
the  celebrities  of  literature  and  fashion  in  this  metropolis,  all 
of  whom,  we  believe,  left,  perfectly  united  in  the  opinion  that 
they  never  remembered  to  have  spent  an  hour  more  delight- 
fully in  their  lives,  and  that  the  room  in  which  they  had  been 
receiving  so  much  enjoyment,  was  very  badly  lighted.  We 
fear,  also,  that  it  was  the  impression  of  the  many  who  were 
disappointed  in  getting  tickets,  that  the  room  was  not  spa- 
cious enough  for  the  purpose  in  which  it  has  been  appropriated. 

Every  one  who  saw  Mr.  Thackeray  last  evening  for  the 
first,  seemed  to  have  had  their  impressions  of  his  appearance 
and  manner  of  speech,  corrected.  Few  expected  to  see  so 
large  a  man  ;  he  is  gigantic,  six  feet  four  at  least ;  few  ex- 
pected to  see  so  old  a  person  ;  his  hair  appears  to  have  kept 
silvery  record  over  fifty  years  ;  and  then  there  was  a  notion 
in  the  minds  of  many  that  there  must  be  something  dashing 
and  "fast"  in  his  appearance,  whereas  his  costume  was  per- 
fectly plain  ;  the  expression  of  his  face  grave  and  earnest ;  his 
address  perfectly  unaffected,  and  such  as  we  might  expect  to 
meet  with,  in  a  well  bred  man  somewhat  advanced  in  years. 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  l6l 

His  elocution,  also,  surprised  those  who  had  derived  their 
impressions  from  the  EngHsh  journals.  His  voice  is  a  superb 
tenor,  and  possesses  that  pathetic  tremble  which  is  so  effec- 
tive in  what  is  called  emotive  eloquence,  while  his  delivery 
was  as  well  suited  to  the  communication  he  had  to  make  as 
could  well  have  been  imagined. 

His  enunciation  is  perfect.  Every  word  he  uttered  might 
have  been  heard  in  the  remotest  quarters  of  the  room,  yet  he 
scarcely  lifted  his  voice  above  a  colloquial  tone.  The  most 
striking  feature  in  his  whole  manner  was  the  utter  absence  of 
affectation  of  any  kind.  He  did  not  permit  himself  to  appear 
conscious  that  he  was  an  object  of  peculiar  interest  in  the 
audience,  neither  was  he  guilty  of  the  greater  error  of  not 
appearing  to  care  whether  they  were  interested  in  him  or  not. 
In  other  words,  he  inspired  his  audience  with  a  respect  for 
him,  as  a  man  proportioned  to  the  admiration,  which  his 
books  have  inspired  for  him  as  an  author. 

Of  the  lecture  itself,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  speak  too  strongly.  Though  written  with  the  utmost  sim- 
plicity and  apparent  inattention  to  effects,  it  overflowed  with 
every  characteristic  of  the  author's  happiest  vein.  There  has 
been  nothing  written  about  Swift  so  clever,  and  if  we  except 
Lord  Orrery's  silly  letters,  we  suspect  we  might  add  nothing 
so  unjust. 

Though  suitable  credit  was  given  to  Swift's  talents,  all  of 
which  were  admirably  characterized,  yet  when  he  came  to 
speak  of  the  moral  side  of  the  dean's  nature  he  saw  nothing 
but  darkness. 


1 62  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


1853. 

Direct  Clarendon  Hotel  New  York. 

Philadelphia. 
21  to  23  January. 

My  dear  lady's  kind  sad  letter  gave  me  pleasure,  melan- 
choly as  it  was.     .     .    . 

At  present,  I  incline  to  come  to  England  in  June  or  July 
and  get  ready  a  new  set  of  lectures,  and  bring  them  back  with 
me.  That  second  course  will  enable  me  to  provide  for  the 
children  and  their  mother  finally  and  satisfactorily,  and  my 
mind  will  be  easier  after  that,  and  I  can  sing  Nunc  Dimittis 
without  faltering.  There  is  money-making  to  try  at,  to  be 
sure,  and  ambition, — I  mean  in  public  life  ;  perhaps  that  might 
interest  a  man,  but  not  novels,  nor  lectures,  nor  fun,  any  more. 
I  don't  seem  to  care  about  these  any  more,  or  for  praise,  or 
for  abuse,  or  for  reputation  of  that  kind.  That  literary  play 
is  played  out,  and  the  puppets  going  to  be  locked  up  for  good 
and  all. 

Does  this  melancholy  come  from  the  circumstance  that  I 
have  been  out  to  dinner  and  supper  every  night  this  week  ? 
O  !  I  am  tired  of  shaking  hands  with  people,  and  acting  the 
lion  business  night  after  night.  Everybody  is  introduced  and 
shakes  hands.  I  know  thousands  of  Colonels,  professors, 
editors,  and  what  not,  and  walk  the  streets  guiltily,  knowing 
that  I  don't  know  'em,  and  trembling  lest  the  man  opposite 
to  me  is  one  of  my  friends  of  the  day  before.  I  believe  I  am 
popular,  except  at  Boston  among  the  newspaper  men  who 
fired  into  me,  but  a  great  favorite  with  the  7nonde  there  and 
elsewhere.  Here  in  Philadelphia  it  is  all  praise  and  kindness. 
Do  you  know  there  are  500,000  people  in  Philadelphia  ?  I 
daresay  you   had  no  idea  thereof,  and  smile  at  the  idea  of 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  163 

there  being  a  mondc  here  and  at  Boston  and  New  York. 
Early  next  month  I  begin  at  Washington  and  Baltimore,  then 
D.  V.  to  New  Orleans,  back  to  New  York  by  Mississippi  and 
Ohio,  if  the  steamers  don't  blow  up,  and  if  they  do,  you  know 
I  am  easy.  What  a  weary,  weary  letter  I  am  writing  to  you. 
Have  you  heard  that  I  have  found  Beatrix  at  New 
York  ?  I  have  basked  in  her  bright  eyes,  but  Ah,  me  !  I 
don't  care  for  her,  and  shall  hear  of  her  marrying  a  New  York 
buck  with  a  feeling  of  perfect  pleasure.  She  is  really  as  like 
Beatrix,  as  that  fellow  William  and  I  met  was  like  Costigan. 
She  has  a  dear  woman  of  a  mother  upwards  of  fifty-five, 
whom  I  like  the  best,  I  think,  and  think  the  handsomest, — a 
sweet  lady.  What  a  comfort  those  dear  Elliots  are  to  me  ; 
I  have  had  but  one  little  letter  from  J.  E.  full  of  troubles  too. 
She  says  you  have  been  a  comfort  to  them  too.  I  can't  live 
without  the  tenderness  of  some  woman ;  and  expect  when  I 
am  sixty  I  shall  be  marrying  a  girl  of  eleven  or  twelve,  inno- 
cent, barley-sugar-loving,  in  a  pinafore. 

They  came  and  interrupted  me  as  I  was  writing  this,  two 
days  since ;  and  I  have  been  in  public  almost  ever  since. 
The  lectures  are  enormously  suivies  and  I  read  at  the  rate  of 
a  pound  a  minute  nearly.  The  curious  thing  is,  that  I  think 
I  improve  in  the  reading ;  at  certain  passages  a  sort  of  emo- 
tion springs  up,  I  begin  to  understand  how  actors  feel  af- 
fected over  and  over  again  at  the  same  passages  of  the  play ; 
— they  are  affected  off  the  stage  too,  I  hope  I  shan't  be. 

Crowe  is  my  immensest  comfort ;  I  could  not  live  without 
someone  to  take  care  of  me,  and  he  is  the  kindest  and  most 
affectionate  henchman  ever  man  had.  I  went  to  see  Pierce 
Butler  yesterday,  Fanny's  husband.  I  thought  she  would 
like  me  to  see  the  children  if  I  could,  and  I  asked  about 
them  particularly,  but  they  were  not  shown.  I  thought  of 
good  Adelaide  coming  to  sing  to  you  when  you  were  ill.  I 
may  like  everyone  who  is  kind  to  you,   mayn't  I  ?     .     .     . 


1 64  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

What  for  has  Lady  Ashburton  never  written  to  me  ?  I  am 
writing  this  with  a  new  gold  pen  in  such  a  fine  gold  case. 
An  old  gentleman  gave  it  to  me  yesterday,  a  white-headed 
old  philosopher  and  political  economist.  There's  something 
simple  in  the  way  these  kind  folks  regard  a  man  ;  they  read 
our  books  as  if  we  were  Fielding,  and  so  forth.  The  other 
night  some  men  were  talking  of  Dickens  and  Bulwer  as  if  they 
were  equal  to  Shakespeare,  and  I  was  pleased  to  find  myself 
pleased  at  hearing  them  praised.  The  prettiest  girl  in  Phil- 
adelphia, poor  soul,  has  read  Vanity  Fair  twelve  times.  I 
paid  her  a  great  big  compliment  yesterday,  about  her  good 
looks  of  course,  and  she  turned  round  delighted  to  her  friend 
and  said,  "  Ai  most  talhit,"  that  is  something  like  the  pro- 
nunciation. Beatrix  has  an  adorable  pronunciation,  and  uses 
little  words,  which  are  much  better  than  wit.  And  what  do 
you  think  ?  One  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Boston  is  to  be  put 
under  my  charge  to  go  to  a  marriage  at  Washington  next 
week.  We  are  to  travel  together  all  the  way  alone — only, 
only,  I'm  not  going.  Young  people  when  they  are  engaged 
here,  make  tours  alone  ;  fancy  what  the  British  Mrs.  Grundy 
would  say  at  such  an  idea ! 

There  was  a  young  quakeress  at  the  lecture  last  night, 
listening  about  Fielding.  Lord !  Lord.  how  pretty  she 
was  !  There  are  hundreds  of  such  everywhere,  airy  looking 
little  beings,  with  magnolia — no  not  magnolia,  what  is  that 
white  flower  you  make  bouquets  of,  Camilla  or  camelia — com- 
plexions, and  lasting  not  much  longer.  .  .  .  God  bless 
you  and  your  children,  write  to  me  sometimes  and  farewell. 


LETTERS    OF     TJIACKERAY.  1 65 

\To  Miss  Peny]. 

Baltimore, — Washington. 

Feby.  7th.  to  14th.  '53. 

Although  I  have  written  a  many  letters  to  Chesham  Place 
not  one  has  gone  to  the  special  address  of  my  dear  K.  E.  P., 
and  if  you  please  I  will  begin  one  now  for  half  an  hour  before 
going  to  lecture  i.  In  another  hour  that  dreary  business  of 
"  In  speaking  of  the  English  Humourous  writers  of  the  last, 
etc."  will  begin, — and  the  wonder  to  me  is  that  the  speaker 
once  in  the  desk  (to-day  it  is  to  be  a  right  down  pulpit  in  a 
Universalist  Church  and  no  mistake),  gets  interested  in  the 
work,  makes  the  points,  thrills  with  emotion  and  indignation 
at  the  right  place,  and  has  a  little  sensation  whilst  the  work 
is  going  on  ;  but  I  can't  go  on  much  longer,  my  conscience 
revolts  at  the  quackery.  Now  I  have  seen  three  great  cities, 
Boston,  New  York,  Philadelphia,  I  think  I  like  them  all 
mighty  well  they  seem  to  me  not  so  civilized  as  our  Lon- 
don, but  more  so  than  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  At  Bos- 
ton is  very  good  literate  company  indeed  ;  it  is  like  Edin- 
burgh for  that, — a  vast  amount  of  toryism  and  donnishness 
everywhere.  That  of  New  York  the  simplest  and  least  pre- 
tentious ;  it  suffices  that  a  man  should  keep  a  fine  house, 
give  parties,  and  have  a  daughter,  to  get  all  the  world  to  him. 
And  what  struck  me,  that  whereas  on  my  first  arrival,  I  was 
annoyed  at  the  uncommon  splendatiousness 

— here  the  letter  was  interrupted  on  Monday  at  Balti- 
more, and  is  now  taken  up  again  on  Thursday  at  Washing- 
ton— never  mind  what  struck  me,  it  was  only  that  after 
a  while  you  get  accustomed  to  the  splendor  of  the  dresses 
and  think  them  right  and  proper.     Use  makes  everything  so; 


1 66  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

who  knows  ?  you  will  be  coming-  out  in  Empire  ruffs  and  high 
waists  by  the  time  I  come  home.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
write  a  word  since  I  came  here  on  Tuesday  ;  my  time  has 
been  spent  in  seeing  and  calling  upon  lions.  Our  minister 
Mr.  Crampton  is  very  jolly  and  good-natured.  Yesterday 
he  had  a  dinner  at  five  for  all  the  legation,  and  they  all  came 
very  much  bored  to  my  lecture.  To-day  I  dined  with  Mr. 
Everett ;  with  the  President  it  may  be  next  week.  The 
place  has  a  Wiesbaden  air — there  are  politics  and  gaieties 
straggling  all  over  it.  More  interruption  and  this  one  has 
lasted  three  days.  Book  indeed  !  How  is  one  to  write  a 
book  when  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  get  a  quiet  half  hour  ? 
Since  I  wrote  has  come  a  short  kind  letter  from  dear  old 
Kinglake,  who  continues  to  give  bad  accounts  from  Chesham 
Place.  God  bless  all  there,  say  I.  I  wish  I  was  by  to  be 
with  my  dear  friends  in  grief,  I  know  they  know  how  to  sym- 
pathize (although  we  are  spoiled  by  the  world,  we  have  no 
hearts  you  know  &c.  &c.  ;  but  then  it  may  happen  that  the 
high  flown  romantic  people  are  wrong,  and  that  we  love  our 
friends  as  well  as  they  do).  I  don't  pity  anybody  who  leaves 
the  world,  not  even  a  fair  young  girl  in  her  prime  ;  I  pity 
those  remaining.  On  her  journey,  if  it  pleases  God  to  send 
her,  depend  on  it  there's  no  cause  for  grief,  that's  but  an 
earthly  condition.  Out  of  our  stormy  life,  and  brought 
nearer  the  Divine  lio-ht  and  warmth,  there  must  be  a  serene 
climate.  Can't  you  fancy  sailing  into  the  calm  ?  Would  you 
care  about  going  on  the  voyage,  only  for  the  dear  souls  left 
on  the  other  shore  ?  but  we  shan't  be  parted  from  them  no 
doubt  though  they  are  from  us.  Add  a  little  more  intelli- 
gence to  that  which  we  possess  even  as  we  are,  and  why 
shouldn't  we  be  with  our  friends  thouo-h  ever  so  far  off?  .  . 
Why  presently,  the  body  removed,  shouldn't  we  person- 
ally be  anywhere  at  will — properties  of  Creation,  like  the 
electric  something   (spark  is   it  ?)  that   thrills   all   round  the 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  1 67 

globe  simultaneously?  and  if  round  the  globe  why  not  Vber- 
all?  and  the  body  being  removed  or  else  where  disposed  of 
and  developed,  sorrow  and  its  opposite,  crime  and  the  re- 
verse, ease  and  disease,  desire  and  dislike  &c.  go  along  with 
the  body — a  lucid  Intelligence  remains,  a  Perception  ubiqui- 
tous. Monday.  I  was  interrupted  a  dozen  times  yesterday 
in  the  course  of  these  profitless  Schwdrmereien. — There's 
no  rest  here  for  pilgrims  like  me.  Have  I  told  you  on  the 
other  side  that  I'm  doing  a  good  business  at  Baltimore  and  a 
small  select  one  here  ?  the  big-wigs  all  come  and  are  pleased  ; 
all  the  legations  and  old  Scott  the  unsuccessful  candidate  for 
the  Presidency  &c.  ?  It  is  well  to  have  come.  I  shall  go 
hence  to  Richmond  and  Charleston  and  then  who  knows 
whither?  not  to  New  Orleans,  I  think  the  distance  is  too 
great.  I  can't  go  a  thousand  miles  fishing  for  half  as  many 
pounds.  Why  not  come  back  and  see  all  the  dear  faces  at 
home  ?  I  try  and  think  of  something  to  say  about  this  coun- 
try ;  all  I  have  remarked  I  could  put  down  in  two  pages. 
Where's  the  eager  observation  and  ready  pencil  of  five  years 
ago  ?  I  have  not  made  a  single  sketch.  The  world  passes 
before  me  and  I  don't  care — Is  it  a  weary  heart  or  is  it  a 
great  cold  I  have  got  in  my  nose  which  stupefies  me  utterly  ? 
I  won't  inflict  any  more  megrims  upon  you, 

from  your  affectionate  friend  and 
brother 

W.  M.  T. 


1 68  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


\To  Mrs.  Elliot   and  her  sister  Miss  Perry.'] 

March  3rd.  1853. 
Richmond,  Virginia. 
Address  the 

Clarendon — New  York. 

Fragrnent. 

I  am  getting-  so  sick  and  ashamed  of  the  confounded  old 
lectures  that  I  wonder  I  have  the  courage  to  go  on  deliver- 
ing them.  I  shan't  read  a  single  review  of  them  when  they 
are  published  ;  anything  savage  said  about  them  will  serve 
them  right.  They  are  popular  enough  here.  The  two  pres- 
idents at  Washington  came  to  the  last,  and  in  this  pretty  lit- 
tle town  the  little  Atheneum  Hall  was  crowded  so  much  that 
its  a  pity  I  had  not  hired  a  room  twice  as  big  ;  but  ^2500  is 
all  I  shall  make  out  of  them.  Well  that  is  ^200  a  year  in 
this  country  and  an  immense  comfort  for  the  chicks. — Crowe 
has  just  come  out  from  what  might  have  been  and  may  be 
yet  a  dreadful  scrape.  He  went  into  a  slave  market  and  be- 
gan sketching  ;  and  the  people  rushed  on  him  savagely  and 
obliged  him  to  quit.  Fancy  such  a  piece  of  imprudence.  It 
may  fall  upon  his  chief,  who  knows,  and  cut  short  his  popu- 
larity. 

The  negroes  don't  shock  me,  or  excite  my  compassionate 
feelings  at  all  ;  they  are  so  grotesque  and  happy  that  I  can't 
cry  over  them.  The  little  black  imps  are  trotting  and  grin- 
ning about  the  streets,  women,  workmen,  waiters,  all  well  fed 
and  happy.  The  place  the  merriest  little  place  and  the  most 
picturesque  I  have  seen  in  America,  and  on  Saturday  I  go  to 
Charlestown — shall  I  go  thence  to  Havannah  ?  who  knows. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 69 

I  should  like  to  give  myself  a  week's  holiday,  without  my 
demd  lecture  box.  Shake  every  one  by  the  hand  that  asks 
about  me. 

I  am  yours  always — O  !   you  kind  friends 

W.  M.  T. 


\To  Miss  Pe/'fy]. 

Savannah,  Georgia, — [1855] 

Feast  of  St.  Valentine. 
This  welcome  day  brought  me  a  nice  long  letter  from  K. 
E.  P.,  and  she  must  know  that  I  write  from  the  most  com- 
fortable quarters  I  have  ever  had  in  the  United  States,  In  a 
tranquil  old  city,  wide-streeted,  tree-planted,  with  a  few  cows 
and  carriages  toiling  through  the  sandy  road,  a  few  happy 
negroes  sauntering  here  and  there,  a  red  river  with  a  tran- 
quil little  fleet  of  merchant-men  taking  in  cargo,  and  tranquil 
ware-houses  barricaded  with  packs  of  cotton, — no  row,  no 
tearing  northern  bustle,  no  ceaseless  hotel  racket,  no  crowds 
drinking  at  the  bar, — a  snug  little  languid  audience  of  three 
or  four  hundred  people,  far  too  lazy  to  laugh  or  applaud ;  a 
famous  good  dinner,  breakfast  etc,  and  leisure  all  the  morn- 
ing to  think  and  do  and  sleep  and  read  as  I  like.  The  only 
place  I  say  in  the  States  where  I  can  get  these  comforts — all 
free  gratis — is  in  the  house  of  my  friend  Andrew  Low  of  the 
great  house  of  A.  Low  and  Co.,  Cotton  Dealers,  brokers. 
Merchants — what's  the  word  ?  Last  time  I  was  here  he  was 
a  widower  with  two  daughters  in  England,  about  whom — and 
other  two  daughters — there  was  endless  talk  between  us. 
Now  there  is  a  pretty  wife  added  to  the  establishment,  and  a 
little  daughter  number  three  crowing  in  the  adjoining  nursery. 
They  are  tremendous  men  these  cotton  merchants. 


lyo  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

When  I  had  finished  at  Charleston  I  went  off  to  a  queer 
little  rustic  city  called  Augusta — a  great  broad  street  2  miles 
long — old  quaint  looking  shops — houses  with  galleries — 
ware-houses — trees — cows  and  negroes  strolling  about  the 
side  walks — plank  roads — a  happy  dirty  tranquility  generally 
prevalent.  It  lies  130  miles  from  Charleston.  You  take  8^ 
hours  to  get  there  by  the  railway,  about  same  time  and  dis- 
tance to  come  here,  over  endless  plains  of  swampy  pine- 
lands — a  village  or  two  here  and  there  in  a  clearing.  I 
brought  away  a  snug  little  purse  from  snug  little  Augusta, 
though  I  had  a  rival — A  Wild  man,  lecturing  in  the  very 
same  hall :  I  tell  you  it  is  not  a  dignified  mdtier,  that  which 
I  pursue. 

What  is  this  about  the  Saturday  Review  ?  After  giving 
Vernon  Harcourt  2/6  to  send  me  the  first  5  numbers,  and 
only  getting  No.  i,  it  is  too  bad  they  should  assault  me — and 
for  what  ?  My  lecture  is  rather  extra  loyal  whenever  the 
Queen  is  mentioned, — and  the  most  applauded  passage  in 
them  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  delivering  tonight  in  the 
Lecture  on  George  II,  where  the  speaker  says  "  In  laughing 
at  these  old-world  follies  and  ceremonies  shall  we  not  ac- 
knowledge the  change  of  to-day  ?  As  the  mistress  of  St. 
James  passes  me  now  I  salute  the  sovereign,  wise,  moderate, 
exemplary  of  life,  the  good  mother,  the  good  wife,  the  accom- 
plished Lady,  the  enlightened  friend  of  Art,  the  tender  sym- 
pathizer in  her  people's  glories  and  sorrows." 

I  can't  say  more,  can  I  ?  and  as  for  George  III,  I  leave  off 
just  with  the  people  on  the  crying  point.  And  I  never  for 
one  minute  should  think  that  my  brave  old  Venables  would 
hit  me  ;   or  if  he  did  that  he  hadn't  good  cause  for  it. 

Forster's  classification  delights  me.  It's  right  that  men 
of  such  ability  and  merit  should  get  government  recognition 
and  honourable  public  employ.  It  is  a  compliment  to  all  of 
us  when  one  receives  such  promotion.     As  for  me  I  have  pes- 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 71 

tered  you  with  my  account  of  dollars  and  cents,  and  it  is  quite 
clear  that  Kings  or  Laws  cannot  do  anything  so  well  for  me 
as  these  jaws  and  this  pen — please  God  they  are  allowed  to 
wag  a  little  longer.  I  wish  I  did  not  read  about  your  illness 
and  weakness  in  that  letter.  Ah,  me  !  many  and  many  a  time 
every  day  do  I  think  of  you  all. 

Enter  a  servant  (black)  with  the  card  of  Bishop  El- 
liott  

If  you  are  taking  a  drive  some  day,  do  go  and  pay  a  visit 
of  charity  to  my  good  cook  and  house-keeper  Gray,  and  say 
you  have  heard  of  me,  and  that  I  am  very  well  and  making 
plenty  of  money  and  that  Charles  is  well  and  is  the  greatest 
comfort  to  me.  It  will  comfort  the  poor  woman  all  alone  in 
poor  36  yonder.  What  charming  letters  Annie  writes  me 
with  exquisite  pretty  turns  now  and  then.  St.  Valentine 
brought  me  a  delightful  letter  from  her  too,  and  from  the  dear 
old  mother  ;  and  whether  it's  the  comfort  of  this  house,  or  the 
pleasure  of  having  an  hour's  chat  with  you,  or  the  sweet  clean 
bed  I  had  last  night  and  undisturbed  rest  and  good  breakfast, 
— altogether  I  think  I  have  no  right  to  grumble  at  my  lot  and 
am  very  decently  happy,  don't  you  ? 

1 6th  Feb.  My  course  is  for  Macon,  Montgomery  and 
New  Orleans;  no  Havannah,  the  dollars  forbid.  From  N.  O. 
I  shall  go  up  the  Mississippi,  D.  V.,  to  St.  Louis  and  Cin- 
cinnati, and  ye  who  write  will  address  care  of  J.  G.  King's 
Sons,  New  York,  won't  you  ? 

Yours  afft. 

W.  M.  T. 


172  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

An  imaginary  letter  from    New  York.* 

September  5,  1848. 
Dear  Madam  : — 

It  seems  to  me  a  long  time  since  I  had  the  honour  of  see- 
ing you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  some  account  of  your  health. 
We  made  a  beautiful  voyage  of  13^  days,  and  reached  this 
fine  city  yesterday.  The  entrance  of  the  bay  is  beautiful  ; 
magnificent  woods  of  the  Susquehannah  stretch  down  to  the 
shore,  and  from  Hoboken  lighthouse  to  Vancouver's  Island, 
the  bay  presents  one  brilliant  blaze  of  natural  and  commercial 
loveliness.  Hearing  that  Titmarsh  was  on  board  the  steamer, 
the  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen  of  New  York  came  down  to 
receive  us,  and  the  batteries  on  Long  Island  fired  a  salute. 
General  Jackson  called  at  my  hotel,  (the  Astor  house)  I  found 
him  a  kind  old  man,  though  he  has  a  wooden  leg  and  takes  a 
great  deal  of  snuff.  Broadway  has  certainly  disappointed  me 
— it  is  nothing  to  be  compared  to  our  own  dear  Holborn  Hill. 
But  the  beautiful  range  of  the  Allegheney  mountains,  which 
I  see  from  my  windows,  and  the  roar  of  the  Niagara  Cataract, 
which  empties  itself  out  of  the  Mississippi  into  the  Oregon 
territory,  have  an  effect,  which  your  fine  eye  for  the  pictu- 
resque, and  keen  sense  of  the  beautiful  and  the  natural  would 
I  am  sure  lead  you  to  appreciate. 

The  oysters  here  are  much  larger  than  ours,  and  the  can- 
vass backed  ducks,  are  reckoned,  and  indeed  are,  a  delicacy. 
The  house  where  Washington  was  born  is  still  shown,  but 
the  General   I   am   informed,  is  dead,  much  regretted.     The 

*  This  letter,  the  only  one  of  those  in  the  collection  which  has  been  made  public  before, 
was  printed  by  permission  in  the  Orphan  of  Pimlico,  a  little  collection  of  Thackeray's  7niscd- 
lanea  and  drawings  published  in  1876.  As  it  will  be  new  to  most  readers,  however,  it  has  been 
thought  best  to  retain  it ;  and  it  is  placed  here  simply  to  be  in  company  with  the  real  American 
letters.  The  drawing  of  the  Negro,  however,  which  accompanied  it  also  in  the  Orphan  of  PiTn- 
lico,  seems  to  have  been  an  actual  sketch  during  one  of  the  American  visits. 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 


"i^lZ 


clergy  here  is  both  numerous  and  respected,  and  the  Arch- 
bishop of  New  York  is  a  most  venerable  and  delightful  pre- 
late ;  whose  sermons  are  however  a  little  long.  The  ladies 
are  without  exception  the — But  here  the  first  gong  sounds  for 
dinner,  and  the  black  slave  who  waits  on  me,  comes  up  and 
says,  "  Massa,  hab  only  five  minutes  for  dinnah."  "  Make 
haste,  git  no  pumpkin  pie  else,"  so  unwillingly  I  am  obliged 
to  break  off  my  note  and  to  subscribe  myself, 

My  dear  Madame 

Your  very  faithful  servt, 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


174  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 


[1854] 


I  hope  you  will  not  object  to  hear  that  I  am  quite  well 
this  morning.  I  should  have  liked  to  shake  hands  with 
H.  before  his  departure,  but  I  was  busy  writing  at  the 
hour  when  he  said  he  was  going,  and  fell  sound  asleep  here 
last  night,  after  a  very  modest  dinner,  not  waking  till  near 
midnight,  when  it  was  too  late  to  set  off  to  the  Paddington 
Station. 

What  do  you  think  I  have  done  to-day  ?  I  have  sent  in 
my  resignation  to  Punch.     There  appears  in  next  Punch  an 

article,  so  wicked,  I  think,  by  poor that  upon  my  word 

I  don't  think  I  ought  to  pull  any  longer  in  the  same  boat 
with  such  a  savage  little  Robespierre.  The  appearance  of 
this  incendiary  article  put  me  in  such  a  rage,  that  I  could 
only  cool  myself  by  a  ride  in  the  Park  ;  and  I  should  very 
likely  have  reported  myself  in  Portman  Street,  but  I  remem- 
bered how  you  had  Miss  Prince  to  luncheon,  and  how  I 
should  be  de  trop.  Now  I  am  going  to  work  the  rest  of  the 
middle  of  the  day  until  dinner  time,  when  I  go  to  see  Le 
Prophete  again  ;  but  it  would  please  me  very  much,  if  you 
please,  to  hear  that  you  were  pretty  well. 

Always  faithfully  de  Madame  le  serviteur  ddvoue 

W.  M.  T. 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  1 75 


The  letters  which  have  been  chosen  for  publication 
end  here.  During  the  many  years  that  they  have  re- 
mained in  my  possession  no  one  has  read  them  out  of 
my  own  family,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Thackeray's 
beloved  daughter,  Mrs.  Ritchie ;  until  these  last  few 
months,  when  two  or  three  of  these  letters  were  read 
by  the  friends  whom  I  consulted  as  to  their  suitability 
for  publication.  As  my  own  life  draws  to  a  close,  I 
still  look  back  to  the  confidence  and  affection  with 
which  their  writer  honoured  me,  with  gratitude  too 
deep  for  words.  The  record  of  these  few  years  of  his 
life,  given  by  his  own  hand  in  every  varied  mood,  will 
best  describe  him  as  he  was  and  as  I  so  well  remem- 
ber him;  but  my  friend  Kate  Perry's  charming  recol- 
lections cannot  fail  to  be  read  with  general  interest. 

Jane  Octavia  Brookfield. 


*   * 


In  addition  to  the  passages  quoted  from  Miss  Perry, 
I  give  two  slight  anecdotes  of  my  own  early  acquaintance : 


When,  soon  after  our 
Mf    marriage,    Mr.    Brookfield 
introduced     his    early  col- 
lege friend,  Mr.  Thackeray, 
to  me,  he   brought  him  one 
day     unexpectedly     to     dine 
with  us.   There  was,  fortunate- 
ly, a   good  plain  dinner,  but   I 
was  young  and  shy  enough  to 
feel  embarrassed  because  we  had 
no  sweets,    and  I  privately    sent 
my  maid  to  the  nearest  confectioner's 
^^j'V.y  to  buy   a  dish  of  tartlets,  which  I  thought 

would  give  a  finish  to  our  simple  meal.  When 
they  were  placed  before  me,  I  timidly  offered  our  guest  a 
small  one,  saying,  '  Will  you  have  a  tartlet,  Mr.  Thackeray  ? ' 
'  I  will,  but  I'll  have  a  two-penny  one,  if  you  please,'  he  an- 
swered, so  beamngly,  that  we  all  laughed,  and  my  shyness 
disappeared. 


On  another  occasion,  also  very  early  in  my  friendship 
with  Mr.  Thackeray,  he  was  at  our  house  one  evening  with 
a  few  other  intimate  friends,  when  the  conversation  turned 
on  court  circulars,  and  their  sameness  day  after  day.  A  few 
samples  were  given  :  '  So-and-so  had  the  honor  of  joining 
Her  Majesty's  dinner  party  with  other  lofty  and  imposing 
personages,'  invariably  ending  with  Dr.  Pretorius.  *  By  the 
way,    who    is   Dr.    Pretorius  ? '   somebody   asked.     A  slight 


LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY.  177 

pause  ensued,  when  a  voice  began  solemnly  singing  the  Na- 
tional Anthem,  ending  each  verse  with, 


"  God  save  our  gracious  Queen, 
Send  her  victorious,  happy  and  glorious. 
Dr.  Pretorius — God  save  the  Queen." 

This  was  Mr.  Thackeray,  who  had  been  sitting  perfectly 
silent  and  rather  apart  from  those  who  were  talking,  and  had 
not  appeared  to  notice  what  was  said. 


SOME    EXTRACTS    FROM    MISS    KATE    PERRY'S    RECOLLEC- 
TIONS  OF   MR.  THACKERAY. 

Mv  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Thackeray  began  at  Brighton, 
where  I  was  staying  with  my  eldest  brother,  William  Perry. 
In  most  cases  there  is  a  prelude  to  friendship — at  first  it  is  a 
delicate  plant,  with  barely  any  root,  gradually  throwing  out 
tender  green  leaves  and  buds,  and  then  full-blown  flowers — 
the  root  in  the  meanwhile  taking  firm  hold  of  the  earth — and 
cruel  is  the  frost  or  cutting  wind  which  destroys  it.  But  Mr. 
Thackeray  and  I  went  through  no  gradations  of  growth  in 
our  friendship  ;  it  was  more  like  Jack's  bean-stalk  in  a  pan- 
tomime, which  rushed  up  sky-high  without  culture,  and, 
thank  God,  so  remained  till  his  most  sad  and  sudden  end. 


In  the  earliest  days  of  our  friendship  be  brought  his  morn- 
ing work  to  read  to  me  in  the  evening ;  he  had  just  com- 
menced "  Vanity  Fair,"  and  was  living  at  the  Old  Ship  Inn, 


178  LETTERS    OE    THACKERAY. 

where  he  wrote  some  of  the  first  numbers.  He  often  then 
said  to  me  :  "  I  wonder  whether  this  will  take,  the  publishers 
accept  it,  and  the  world  read  it  ?  "  I  remember  answering 
him  that  I  had  no  reliance  upon  my  own  critical  powers 
in  literature  ;  but  that  I  had  written  to  my  sister,  Mrs.  Fred- 
erick Elliot,  and  said,  "  I  have  made  a  great  friendship  with 
one  of  the  principal  contributors  of  Ptinch — Mr.  Thackeray  ; 
he  is  now  writing  a  novel,  but  cannot  hit  upon  a  name  for  it. 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  seems  to  me  the  cleverest  thing  I 
ever  read.  The  first  time  he  dined  with  us  I  was  fearfully 
alarmed  at  him.  The  next  day  we  walked  in  Chichester 
Park,  when  he  told  all  about  his  little  girls,  and  of  his  great 
friendship  with  the  Brookfields,  and  I  told  him  about  you 
and  Chesham  Place."  When  he  heard  this,  and  my  opinion 
of  his  novel,  he  burst  out  laughing,  and  said  :  "  Ah  !  Ma- 
demoiselle (as  he  always  called  me),  it  is  not  small  beer ;  but 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  will  be  palatable  to  the  London 
folks."  He  told  me,  some  time  afterward,  that,  after  ransack- 
ing his  brain  for  a  name  for  his  novel,  it  came  upon  him  un- 
awares, in  the  middle  of  the  night,  as  if  a  voice  had  whis- 
pered, "  Vanity  Fair."  He  said,  "  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  and 
ran  three  times  round  my  room,  uttering  as  I  went,  *  Vanity 
Fair,  Vanity  Fair,  Vanity  Fair.'  " 


Afterward  we  frequently  met  at  the  Miss  Berrys',  where 
night  after  night  were  assembled  all  the  wit  and  beauty  of 
that  time.  There  was  such  a  charm  about  these  gatherings 
of  friends,  that  hereafter  we  may  say :  "  There  is  no  salon 
now  to  compare  to  that  of  the  Miss  Berrys',  in  Curzon 
Street."  My  sister  and  I,  with  our  great  admiration  and 
friendship  for  Mr.  Thackeray,  used  to  think  that  the  Miss 
Berrys  at  first  did   not  thoroughly  appreciate  or   understand 


[From  an   etching  of  a  portrait  by  Samuel   Laurence.] 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1/9 

him  ;  but  one  evening,  when  he  had  left  early,  they  said  they 
had  perceived,  for  the  first  time,  "what  a  very  remarkable 
man  he  was."  He  became  a  constant  and  most  welcome 
visitor  at  their  house  ;  they  read  his  works  with  delight,  and, 
whenever  they  were  making  up  a  pleasant  dinner,  used  to 
say  :  "  We  must  have  Thackeray."  It  was  at  one  of  these 
dinners  that  Miss  Berry  astonished  us  all  by  saying  she 
"had  never  read  Jane  Austen's  novels,  until  lately  someone 
had  lent  them  to  her.  But  she  could  not  get  on  with  them  ; 
they  were  totally  uninteresting  to  her — long-drawn-out  details 
of  very  ordinary  people,"  and  she  found  the  books  so  tedious 
that  she  could  not  understand  their  having  obtained  such  a 
celebrity  as  they  had  done.  "  Thackeray  and  Balzac,"  she 
added  (Thackeray  being  present),  "write  with  great  min- 
uteness, but  do  so  with  a  brilliant  pen."  Thackeray  made 
two  bows  of  gratitude  (one,  pointing  to  the  ground,  for 
Balzac).  Those  who  love  to  pore  over  old  memoirs  will 
find  Miss  Berry's  name  associated  with  Horace  Walpole's ; 
but  when  they  met  he  was  very  old,  and  she  was  very  young. 
She  accepted  his  admiration  with  pride  and  gratitude,  but 
had  no  aspiration  to  be  the  mistress  of  Strawberry  Hill. 

Miss  Agnes  Berry  adored  her  elder  sister  ;  she  had 
considerable  clearness  and  acuteness  of  perception,  and 
Thackeray  always  maintained  she  was  the  more  naturally 
gifted  of  the  two  sisters.  In  her  youth  she  was  a  pretty, 
charming  girl,  with  whom  Gustavus  Adolphus  danced  at  one 
of  his  court  balls,  and  was  admired  and  envied  by  the  other 
ladies  present.  These  two  remarkable  women  lived  together 
for  nearly  ninety  years. 


Thackeray's  love  of  children  was  one  of  the  strongest  feel- 
ings of  his  heart.     In  a  little  poem,  "The  Golden  Pen,"  pub- 


l8o  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY, 

ished   in   his   "Miscellanies,"   which   is,   perhaps,  the   truest 
portrait  of  him  which  has  ever  appeared,  he  writes  : 

"  There's  something,  even  in  his  bitterest  mood, 
That  melts  him  at  the  sight  of  infanthood  ; 
Thank  God  that  he  can  love  the  pure  and  good." 

This  sympathy  with  the  little  ones  was  not  only  proved 
by  his  immense  devotion  to  his  own  most  gifted  children,  but 
extended  to  the  little  "  gutter  child,"  as  the  trim  board-school 
girl  of  to-day  was  called  then.  For  this  waif  of  society  he 
felt  the  tenderest  pity  and  interest.  He  used  often  to  visit  a 
school  where  my  dear  sister  had  collected  nearly  three  hun- 
dred of  these  neglected  children,  feeding,  teaching,  and  cloth- 
ing them,  and,  with  the  help  of  other  kind  souls,  preparing 
them  in  some  degree  to  fight  the  battle  of  life,  in  which  there 
are  many  crosses — but  few  Victoria  ones.  Turning  his  steps 
one  day  to  this  large,  rough-looking  school-room,  he  entered 
it  just  as  these  little  Arabs  were  commencing,  with  more 
heartiness  than  melody,  Faber's  beautiful  hymn  : 

"  O  Paradise  !   O  Paradise  ! 

Who  doth  not  crave  for  rest } 
Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land. 
Where  they  that  love  are  blest  ?  " 

He  turned  to  the  lady  superintending  them,  and  said,  "  I 
cannot  stand  this  any  longer — my  spectacles  are  getting  very 
dim." 

One  day,  some  few  years  later,  I  had  been  engaged  in 
summing  up  the  monthly  expenses  of  the  same  school,  and 
had  left  open  on  my  writing-table,  the  much  scored-over  Soup 
Kitchen  book.  Mr.  Thackeray  was  shown  into  the  room,  and 
was  for  some  minutes  alone  before  I  joined  him.     After  he 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  l8l 

left,  I  resumed  my  labors,  and  found  on  the  first  page  of  the 
book  a  beautifully  executed  pen-and-ink  sketch  of  little  chil- 
dren crowding-  round  the  school-mistress,  who  was  ladling 
out,  into  mugs  of  various  sizes  and  shapes,  the  daily  meal  of 
soup,  above  which  was  written,  "  Suffer  little  children,  and 
forbid  them  not." 

Another  day,  I  found  a  sovereign  under  a  paper  contain- 
ing the  names  of  some  friends  of  the  school  who  had  joined 
in  a  subscription  to  give  the  children  a  day's  holiday  in  the 
country.  I  said  to  my  servant,  "  Mr.  Thackeray  has  been 
here,"  and  found  from  him  this  was  the  case.  I  knew  my 
instinct  was  right,  that  it  was  his  hand  which  had  placed  the 
money  there.  His  charity  was  very  wide,  in  the  fullest  sense 
of  the  word.  He  has  been  known  to  discover,  in  some  re- 
mote corner,  the  hapless  artist  or  dramatist  who  in  his  palmy 
days  had  not  thought  much  of  that  night — old  age — "  when 
no  more  work  can  be  done."  Thackeray  would  mount  the 
many  steps  leading  to  the  desolate  chamber — administer 
some  little  rebuke  on  the  thoughtlessness  of  not  laying  by 
some  of  the  easily  gained  gold  of  youth  or  manhood,  and 
slijDping,  as  in  one  instance,  into  an  old  blotting-book,  a  ^loo 
note,  would  hurry  away. 

"  I  never  saw  him  do  it,"  said  poor  old  P .      "  I   was 

very  angry  because  he  said  I  had  been  a  reckless  old  goose — 
and  then  a  ^loo  falls  out  of  my  writing-book.  God  bless 
him  !  " 


These  good  deeds  would  never  have  come  to  light  but  for 
the  gratitude  of  those  who,  though  they  had  the  gentle  re- 
buke, received  also  the  more  than  liberal  help.  I  know  he 
has  been  accused  of  extreme  sensitiveness  to  blame,  either 
about  himself  or  his  writings,  but  the  following  story  proves 
that   he   could    forgive   with   magnanimity   and   grace    when 


1 82  LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY. 

roughly  and  severely  handled.  This  once  occurred  at  my 
sister's  dinner-table,  Thackeray,  who  was  almost  a  daily 
visitor  at  her  house,  for  some  time  took  it  into  his  head,  to 
be  announced  by  the  name  of  the  most  noted  criminal  of  the 
day.     Our  butler  did  this  with  the  greatest  gravity. 

On  this  occasion  Thackeray  had  been  asked  to  join  some 
friends  at  dinner,  but  not  arriving  at  the  prescribed  hour,  the 

guests  sat  down  without  him.     Among  them  was  Mr.  H , 

the  author  of  some  of  the  most  charming  books  of  the  day. 

The  conversation  being  more  literary  than  otherwise, 
Thackeray  (then  at  the  very  height  of  his  fame)  came  under 
discussion,  and,  some  of  his  greatest  friends  and  admirers 
being  present,  he  was  spoken  of  with  unqualified  admiration. 

Mr.  H was  the  exception,  and  dissented  from  us,  in  very 

unmeasured  terms,  in  our  estimate  of  Thackeray's  character. 
Judging,  he  said,  "  from  the  tenor  of  his  books,  he  could  not 
believe  how  one  who  could  dwell,  as  he  did,  on  the  weakness 
and  absurdities  and  shortcomings  of  his  fellow-creatures,, 
could  possess  any  kind  or  generous  sympathies  toward  the 
human  race."  He  concluded  his  severe  judgment  by  saying 
that,  "  He  had  never  met  him,  and  hoped  he  never  should  do 
so." 

We  were  all  so  occupied  by  this  fiery  debate  that  we  did 
not  observe  that,  under  the  sobriquet  of  some  jail-bird  of  the 
day,  Thackeray  had  slipped  into  his  chair,  and  heard  much 
that  was  said,  including  the  severe  peroration.     A  gentle  tap 

on    Mr.  H 's   shoulder,   and,   in   his  pleasant,   low  voice, 

Thackeray  said,  "  I,  on  the  contrary,  have  always  longed  for 

the  occasion  when  I  could  express,  personally,  to  Mr.  H , 

the  great  admiration  I  have  always  felt  for  him,  as  an  author 
and  a  man."  It  is  pleasant  to  think  they  became  fast  friends 
thereafter. 

Note. — The  little  sketch  of  the  cupid  [p.  183]  was  sent  to  Miss  Perry  unfinished  as  it  is,  as 
an  acknowledgment  for  some  grapes  which  she  had  given  to  one  of  his  daughters  who  was  not 
well.     J.  O.  B. 


LETTERS    OF    THACKERAY.  1 83 

I  find  it  difficult  to  check  my  pen  from  being  garrulous  as 
I  remember  the  many  instances  of  the  kindness  and  gener- 
osity of  his  nature,  though,  at  the  same  time,  I  feel  how  in- 
adequate it  is  to  do  justice  to  all  his  noble  and  delightful 
qualities.  His  wit  and  humor  and  playfulness  were  most 
observable  where  he  was  happiest  and  most  at  ease, — with 
his  beloved  daughters,  or  with  his  dear  friends  the  Brook- 
fields,  who  were  the  most  intimate  and  valued  of  those  he 
made  in  middle  life.  I  am  proud  to  say,  also,  that  he  was 
aware  of  the  admiration  in  which  he  was  held  by  every  mem- 
ber of  my  sister's  home,  where  his  ever  ready  sympathy  in 
all  our  troubles  and  pleasures  was  truly  appreciated — and 
when  he  passed  away,  and  the  place  knew  him  no  more,  a 
great  shadow  fell  upon  that  house. 

Kate  Perry. 


INDEX. 


[All  letters  not  especially  addressed  to  others  were  written  to  Mrs.  Brook- 
field,  or  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brookfield  jointly.'] 


A  INSWORTH,  W.  H.,  84. 

Alexis,  the  somnambulist,  56, 

57. 
Alresford,  the  magistrate's  sessions 

at,  154. 
Ancelot,  Mme.,  151. 
Arlincourt,  Vicomte  d',  114. 
Ashburton,  Lord,  154. 
Ashburton,   Lady,   36,   58,    67,   97, 

155,  158. 


DALTIMORE,  Thackeray  at,  165. 

Beauvoir,  Roger  de,  88. 
Bedford,  the  Dowager  Duchess  of, 

53- 
Bellows,  Rev.  Henry  W.,  158. 

Benedict,  Sir  Julius,  59  //. 

Berne,  Thackeray  at,  147. 

Berry,  the  Misses,  47,  67,  99,  104, 
178. 

Blenheim,  Thackeray  at,  31. 

Bonneval,  Mme.  de,  146. 

Bracebridge,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  22. 

Brandauer,  Miss,  24. 

Brighton,  Thackeray  at,  61. 

Brohan,  Mile.,  80. 

Brookfield,  Rev.  William  Henry 
(often  referred  to  in  the  letters 
by  various  names,  as  "Mr.  Will- 
iams,"   "the   Inspector,"   etc.),  7 


n.,  23,  25,  26,  Z3,  36,  37,  42,  44,  48, 
50,  60  et  seq.,  67,  76,  85,  86,  87,  92, 
loi,  108,  114,  117,  118,  125  ;  let- 
ters to,  5,  6,  8,  22,  27,  28,  30,  51, 
54,  58,  59,  70,  129,  135,  136,  137, 
157- 

Brougham,  Lord,  99. 

Brussels,  Thackeray  at,  9  et  seq. 

Budd,  Captain,  46. 

Bullar,  Joseph,  22,  35,  89. 

Bullar,  William,  139. 

Buller,  Charles,  death  of,  t,^. 

Butler,  Pierce,  163. 

Byng,  Mr.,  153. 


QANTERBURY,  Thackeray  at, 
10. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  34,  116,  156. 

Castlereagh,  Lord  and  Lady,  103, 
107,  114,  123. 

Chapman,  Mr.,  10. 

Chasles,  Mr.,  77. 

Chronicle,  The,  Thackeray's  contri- 
butions to,  29. 

Clevedon  Court,  7  n.,  28  //.,  30. 

Colemache,  Mme.,  151. 

Cowper,  Spencer,  56. 

Crampton,  Mr.,  British  Minister 
at  Washington,   166. 

Crowe,  Eyre,  58  n. 


i86 


INDEX. 


Crowe,  Mr.,  6. 

Crowe,  Mrs.,  58  «.,  67. 

Crowe,  Thackeray's  servant,  163. 


r\AMER,  Colonel,  104. 

"  David  Copperfield,"  54,  87. 
Davy,  Lady,  46,  15. 
De   Bathe,  Sir   Henry   and    Lady, 

59- 

Dejazet,  Mile.,  14. 

Dickens,  Charles,  "  Reconciliation 
banquet "  given  to  him  and 
Thackeray  by  Forster,  5  ;  Letter 
of  A.  H.  concerning,  with  Thack- 
eray's comments,  7  ;  Thackeray 
on,  68. 

Dilke,  Charles  Wentworth,  29. 

Dover,  Thackeray  at,  11,  37. 

Doyle,  Richard,  133. 


PLGIN,  Lady,  152. 
Ellice,  Mr.,  107. 

Elliot,  Frederick,  142. 

Elliot,  Mrs.,  103,  128,  141  ;  letters 
to,  168  et  seq.,  178. 

Elliot,  Miss  Hatty,  104. 

Elliotson,  Dr.,  73,  103. 

Elton,  Sir  Charles,   7  n.,  28  n. 

Elton,  Sir  Edmund,  28  fi. 

Errington,  Mrs.,  79. 

Evening  Post,  The,  New  York,  Ex- 
tract from,  on  Thackeray's  lect- 
ures, 160. 

Everett,  Edward,  166. 

Exhibition  of  185 1,  134. 


CARRER,  Miss,  155. 

Fanshawe,  Mrs.,  48,  79. 
Fielding's  Novels,  Thackeray  on, 
120. 


Fonblanque,  Mr.,  66. 

Forster,  John,  His  "reconciliation 

banquet,"  5  ;  mention  of,  10  and 

?i. 
Eraser,  Thomas,  79. 


QALIGNANFS  MESSENGER, 
Thackeray's  contributions  to, 

Gigoux,  Mr.,  108. 

Gordon,  Sir  Alexander  and  Lady 

Duff,  59. 
Granville,  Lady,  53. 
Gudin,  Theodore,  108. 
Gudin,  Mme.,  80,  113. 


LJALLAM,    Henry    Fitzmaurice, 
20,  30,  59,  128  ;  death  of,  129. 
Hallam,  Miss,  69. 
Halliday,  Mr.,  79. 
Heidelberg,  Thackeray  at,  145. 
Herbert,  Mrs  ,125. 
Higgins,    Matthew    James    (Jacob 

Omnium),  67  n. 
Hislop,  Lady,  104. 
Holland,  Lord,  131. 
Hotel  des  Pays  Bas,  Spa,  16  et  seq. 
Hovvden,  Lord,  105. 


JACOBS,  the  Wizard,  11. 

"Jane    Eyre,"    its    authorship 
attributed  to  Procter,  29. 
Janin,  Jules,  74  et  seq. 
Jones,  Longueville,  2>^. 


j<^ENYON,  Mr.,  129. 

Kinglake,  Alexander  William, 
104. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  145. 


INDEX. 


187 


r  AMARTINE,  Alphonse  de,  38. 

L:insdowne,  Lord,  116. 
Leslie,  the  Misses,  53. 
Lind,  Mme.  Jennie,  59,  119. 
Literary  Fund,  Thackeray's  dinner 

and  speech  at,  120  et  scq. 
Louvre,  the,  Tliackeray  at,  77. 
Lovelace,  Lady,  47. 
Low,  Andrew,  169. 
Lucerne,  Thackeray  at,  149. 
Lytton,  Sir  Bulwer,  123. 


lyiACAULAY,    Thomas    Babing- 

ton,  90,  92. 
Macdonald,  Norman,  TyT,. 
Mackenzie,  Mrs.  Stewart,  144. 
Maine,  Henry,  117. 
Marrast,  Mr.,  38. 
Martchenko,  Mr.,  146. 
Meurice's  Hotel,  Paris,  Thackeray 

at,  38. 
Mill,  John  Stuart,  98. 
Molesworth,  Sir  William  and  Lady, 

127. 
Montgomery,     Mrs.     Alfred,      70, 

71- 
Morgan,  Captain,  53. 
Morier,  Mr.,  34,  63. 
Morley,  Lady,  116. 
"  Mysteres  de  Londres,"  a  French 

play,  Thackeray's  description  of, 

40. 


TUAPIER,  Sir  George,  92. 

New  York,  Thackeray  in,  158  ; 
imaginary  letter  from,  172. 
Normanby,  Lord,  39,  107. 


Q'BRIEN,  Smith,  19. 

Orsay,  the  Count  d',  iii. 


Osy,  Mme.,  80. 

Oxford,  Thackeray  at,  31. 


DALMER,  Mr.,  62. 

Paris,  Thackeray  in,  38,  74  et 

seq.,  104  et  seq.,  151  ^/  seq. 
Parr,  Mrs.,  30,  72. 
Parr,  Thomas,  144. 
Pattle,    Miss   Virginia,    65    «.,    97, 

128. 
Payne,  Mrs.  Brookfield's  maid,  20, 

23- 

Peacock,  Thomas  Love,  100. 

Peel,  Sir  Robert  and  Lady,  116. 

"  Pendennis,"  27,  29,  42,  46,  48,  49, 
^3y  65,  67,  74,  84,  97. 

Perry,  Miss  Kate,  55,  103  ;  her 
recollections  of  Thackeray,  177  ; 
letters  to,  168,  169. 

Perry,  William,  177. 

Philadelphia,  Thackeray  in,  162. 

Powell,  Mrs.,  70. 

Prinsep,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  65  n.,  97. 

Procter,  Adelaide,  29,  47,  70. 

Procter,  Bryan  Waller  (Barry  Corn- 
wall), 44,  45  11. 

Procter,  Mrs,,  27,  49,  53,  54,  126. 

Flinch,  25  ;  Thackeray  resigns  from, 
174. 


DOTHESAY,    Lady     Stuart    de, 

104. 
Rawlinson,  Major,  156. 
Rehda,  baths  of,  22. 
Rice,  Spring,  136. 
Richmond,  Thackeray  at,  168. 
Robbins,  Mrs.,  72. 
Rothschild,  Baron,  38. 
Royal  Scots  Fusiliers,  Thackeray's 

visit  to,  10. 
Ryde,  Thackeray  at,  54. 


i88 


INDEX. 


gANDWICH,  Lady,  107. 

Sartoris,  Mrs.,  61. 
Savannah,  Thackeray  at,  169. 
Scott,  General  Winfield,  167. 
Sterling,  A.,  59  ti. 
Shell,  Richard,  66. 
Simeon,  Mr.,  131. 
Smith,  Horace,  62. 
Smith,  the  Misses,  62,  65  «.,  73. 
Spa,  Thackeray  at,  15  et  seq. 
Sortain,  Mr.,  34. 
Sutro,  Dr.,  22. 


TAYLOR,  Henry,  136,  156. 
Tennent,  Lady,  53. 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace, 
circumstances  of  his  correspon- 
dence with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brook- 
field,  I,  2  ;  his  visit  to  the  Royal 
Scots  Fusiliers  in  garrison,  10  ; 
his  hour  in  Canterbury  Cathe- 
dral, 11-13  ;  journey  to  Brus- 
sels, 13  ;  on  Becky  Sharp  and 
others  of  his  characters,  14  ; 
journey  to  Spa,  15  et  seq.  ;  on 
Titmarsh's  reception  at  the  Ho- 
tel d'York,  16  ;  in  the  play-house 
at  Spa,  18,  19  ;  his  notes  in  verse, 
25,  26;  comments  on  "  Penden- 
nis,"  29  ;  writes  for  the  Chronicle, 
29  ;  at  Oxford  and  Blenheim, 
31  ;  on  the  service  in  Magdalen 
Chapel,  32  ;  on  Charles  Buller's 
death,  2,7,  ;  on  "blasphemous  as- 
cetism,"  35  ;  at  Dover,  37  ;  in 
Paris,  38 ;  his  "  quarantine  of 
family  dinners,"  etc.,  38 ;  de- 
scription of  a  French  play,  39  ; 
on  his  work  and  money  affairs, 
43,  44  ;  on  Blanche  Amory  and 
Pendennis,  49 ;  at  the  Reform 
banquet,  53  ;  on   "  David   Cop- 


perfield,"  54  ;  at  Spencer  Cow- 
per's  dinner,  56  ;  at  Brighton, 
61  ;  on  his  work  on  "  Penden 
nis,"  65,  67  ;  en  Dickens,  68  ;  on 
old  friendships,  70  ;  in  Paris 
again,  74;  visits  Jules  Janin,  74; 
on  his  artist  life  in  Paris,  77  ;  on 
a  rumor  of  his  death,  81  ;  his 
poem,  "  A  Failure,"  82  ;  his  fear 
of  loss  of  memory,  84 ;  in  a 
French  green-room,  88  ;  his 
Christmas  letter,  95  ;  on  his 
work,  97,  98  ;  on  a  ride  and  the 
characters  met  in  it,  102  ;  in 
Paris  again,  104  ,  on  d'Orsay, 
III  ;  at  a  French  ball,  114  ;  at 
Cambridge,  117;  his  "smash" 
at  the  Literary  Fund,  120  ;  on 
a  visit  to  an  emigrant  ship,  124  ; 
his  review  of  Fielding  in  the 
Times,  125  ;  on  handwritings, 
129;  on  funerals,  129;  his  ode 
for  the  Exhibition,  132  et  seq.; 
on  the  exhibition,  134  ;  on  mys- 
ticism, 139  ;  on  the  Rhine,  143  ; 
at  Wiesbaden,  144  ;  at  Heidel- 
berg, 144  ;  at  Berne,  147  ;  on 
his  fortieth  birthday,  147  ;  at 
Lucerne,  149  ;  in  Paris  again, 
151  ;  on  the  death  of  Mr.  Brook- 
field's  father,  157  ;  in  New  York, 
158  ;  his  lectures  there,  160  ;  in 
Philadelphia,  162  ;  in  Baltimore 
and  Washington,  165  ;  his  opin- 
ion of  American  cities,  165  ;  on 
his  lectures,  168  ;  at  Richmond, 
168  ;  at  Savannah,  169 ;  on  the 
Saturday  Review's  criticisms,  170; 
his  imaginary  letter  from  New 
York,  172  ;  his  resignation  from 
Punch,  174;  anecdotes  of,  176  et 
seq. 
Thackeray,  Dr.,  118. 


Tidy,  Mrs.,  46. 
Trench,  Richard  Chenevix,  155. 
Turpin,  Mrs.  Brookfield's  maid,  23, 
93- 

" yANITY  FAIR,"  the  Spectator's 
notice    of,     10,    29    //.,    178 
et  seq. 


INDEX. 

Villiers,  Charles,  100,  103. 


189 


^ALDEGRAVE,  Lady,  107. 

Washington,   Thackeray   at, 
165. 
Whitmore,  Mrs.,  73. 
Wiesbaden,  Thackeray  at,  144. 
Wihiiot,  Foley,  153. 


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